Your Ancient Soul
by Rain Day
Summary: On his way home to Minas Tirith Faramir encounters an elf. Not any elf, mind you, but one particularly grumpy specimen. Slash
1. Chapter 1

Faramir pulled his drenched cloak tightly around himself and allowed his horse to choose its own way along the muddy path. The loyal animal knew best where to put its hooves and where to treat more carefully. Its rider wasn't too proud to admit to his momentary uselessness.

He couldn't see much farther than his own two hands.

Callous hands they were, skin still raw and burning where fingers had clasped sword and bow mere hours ago. A scholar's hands, hidden in the worn-out, cold leather gloves of a Gondorian ranger, dripping wet like the rest of him.

The rain had surprised them, a real cloudburst. Even though barely early afternoon, within heartbeats the day had turned as black as night and over the falling rain Faramir could hear the distant rumbling of thunder.

It had been a sunny, beautiful summer until today. Neither too hot and dry, nor too rainy and not a single thunder-storm. Until today.

His dapple grey snorted, warm breath steaming in the chilly air and Faramir absentmindedly patted its neck.

"I apologize, Rochallor." He said. "I am afraid even our friend Mithrandir could not change this weather. We will have to endure it until Minas Tirith... The trees are thirsty."

The horse, so aptly named after Faramir's wildest childhood dreams of fighting alongside elven king Fingolfin against the forces of evil, shook its massive head, for once appearing grateful that its master had cropped its curly, black mane short.

There never had been rain in those childhood dreams and "evil" had yielded when tickled, shortly before the midday meal.

Rochallor grunted discontentedly.

"Now." Faramir chided. "Surely you do not begrudge them their drink. Remember, it's their leaves I feed you in winter."

_You sound like a wood-elf._ He could almost hear his brother mocking him.

Faramir didn't take it as an insult. Not from Boromir, anyway. Maybe it even was the truth. In any case, he wouldn't know. He had never met any elves. Read about them, dreamed about one day laying eyes on at least one of them, yes, of course! But actually met them? No. They remained elusive creatures out of myths, glorifying the ancient past, child's play and old wife's tales.

_Good for sentimental poems._ Boromir would say. _Nothing else._

Faramir would have liked to ask his father's opinion, but feared wasting the Steward's time with such trivial musings, even and especially during their rare family meals together. Denethor had more important things to concern himself with than his youngest's foolish fantasies. He had made that clear often enough in Faramir's youth.

Faramir had learned his lesson and remembered it well now, as an adult.

They were at war. They had always been. Or at least, it felt that way. Mordor seemed to be always threatening and the Easterlings grew more daring each passing year.

If there hadn't been war, however, there would have been other, more important problems to solve. Trade agreements, harvest, bridges, roads and other building projects, population growth, sicknesses, the nobles, the poor, justice, bandits... Gondor didn't rule itself. The absence of a king didn't facilitate matters, either.

It made Faramir proud to think that, if not in war, at least in council sessions, when it came to negotiating with foreign envoys and dealing with the common folk's grievances Denethor did rely on him. Which was one of the reasons Faramir had had to leave his men in Ithilien and travel to Minas Tirith in the first place.

He didn't mind.

And he kept his musings about elves and his tutor Mithrandir's strange adventures for the road. Here he could allow his mind to wander, if only a little.  
>His training as a ranger had taught him the hard way not to daydream.<p>

At only eleven years old two crudely made arrows had nearly ended his young life. He still carried the scars. Yet, it had been the worry, the anger and pain and the wounded, naked fear he had seen in his instructor's, his captain's, his comrades', his brother's and his father's eyes that had sparked his determination to never let something similar happen ever again. From that moment on he had taken his training very seriously.

His senses had been sharpened since then and his body drilled to breaking point. He was always alert, ready to fight and defend himself and his home.

A true soldier of Gondor.

Lighting flashed dangerously close and Faramir flinched, making his horse jump in turn. Luckily the side of the road wasn't too steep.

_A true soldier of Gondor, indeed._

Faramir grinned, wiping rainwater off his face with one hand, while guiding Rochallor back on track with the other.

His grin faded quickly enough, though.

Something wasn't right. He couldn't quite put a finger on what exactly it was that suddenly unsettled him so, but so far his instincts had never failed him.

Faramir hesitated, making his horse turn several times, before he managed to convince himself that whatever he had seen or heard or _felt _was long gone and proved no immediate danger.

Yet, something had undoubtedly changed. Even if he could not make it out through the pouring rain, he knew, simply _knew_.

His horse sidled nervously beneath him. The animal itself hadn't picked up anything, Faramir knew. Its ears lay back against its neck. Its intelligent, dark eyes didn't scan the surroundings like they normally would have. Instead, Rochallor's attention was on him. After the many years they had spent together Faramir could read his equine companion as easily as a trusted human friend: It was his own unease that affected the horse.

_It isn't the darkness._ Faramir had never minded it.

_Nor the rain. _Rain in these parts generally meant less danger. Easterlings and bandits alike didn't seem to particularly like it.

Faramir breathed deep. For a brief moment he closed his eyes, trying to concentrate on anything that could possibly have caused his tension, in and outside of his body. Bit by bit he blocked out everything else, slowly narrowing the scope._  
><em>

_A scent, maybe? _A wound somewhere or a muscle cramp he hadn't paid attention to?

No, no, those weren't anything-

_There, again!_

Faramir's eyes flew open.

Rochallor didn't move. The rain had frozen mid-air. Time stood still as Faramir turned in the saddle without causing a sound, searching. Nothing moved. Nothing, except...

_Impossible!_

Surprise broke his concentration. Something Mithrandir had warned him of when he had taught him the trick, surprised how fast Faramir had managed to catch on.

Instantly the world came crashing in on him. Raindrops and wind, hooves on gravel and mud, Rochallor's soft snorting, leather, fabric, fur, leaves, grass, sweat, rough, soft, pain, hot, cold, a tidal wave of noise and sensations that momentarily had him gasping for air.

He bent forward ever so slightly, fighting off a sudden wave of nausea.

Yet, it was worth it.

Faramir had found his answer.

He wasn't so sure if he liked it, though.

Source of his sudden unease seemed to be the trees themselves: The last few trees of the outskirts of Ithilien's vast forest he had just left behind, whispering, urging him to turn back, to turn around, to come, to follow.

_This is ridiculous!  
><em>

And yet, it was undoubtedly there.

Now that he knew where it came from, it grew stronger, more distinct.

Now that he knew what to look for, what to listen to, he could almost make out voices. He could feel the urgency of this disembodied message as a physical touch. Like hands reaching for him, pulling on his hand holding Rochallor's reigns._  
><em>

_Come back! Come! Make haste! Come! You are needed! Needed! Come! Make haste!_

One more time Faramir debated with himself. Then he turned his horse around.

"Show me." He whispered, unsure if anyone or anything could actually understand him.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Well, hello there, dear readers!  
><strong>_

_**I hope you are enjoying this so far. If you do, be so kind and let me know. Leaving a review takes you a few seconds, but makes my entire day. Think about it! ;) (Thank you very, very much to the two of you who already have!)  
><strong>_

_**Oh, and: Guess which elf we have here. He is one of Tolkien's elves. Even though Tolkien probably imagined him with the usual nobly pale skin. I never could and I do hope you forgive me for changing this detail (among some others). In my mind I always pictured this particular elf with darker skin.**_

_**So, here we go.**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Following the voiceless call of the trees, Faramir left his dapple grey at the side of the road, on the edge of the forest. A forest that called out to him, almost as clearly as an actual, living creature.<p>

It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling altogether. Ithilien had become his home, much more than the white city could ever have been, for Faramir shared his mother's inability to remain behind stone walls for too long._  
><em>

_"Each day you become more like her."_ Denethor would growl and smile at the same time.

Faramir took that, too, as a compliment. "Her" was his mother, after all, "frail and otherworldly" Findulias. And Denethor had loved her, loved her still.

Faramir, on the other hand, had never known her, other than what Boromir could tell him. Sadly, despite everything, Boromir's fond memories of their mother were not his own. She was a stranger to him. He could not love her.

Denethor had hit him when he had said as much as a child, rightfully so.

_"I do not grief for that woman."_ Faramir had declared in all his childish defiance.

It had been honest, sure, but a tactless thing to say on the anniversary of her funeral when all of Gondor had mourned the too timely passing of fair Finduilas- or pretended to.

It had been a terrible statement, especially coming from one of her sons.

Yet, Faramir had been unwilling to pretend any longer. He had been unable to pretend to mourn someone he didn't even know, like so many others did. More than that, the hypocrisy of it all had made him angry. He had wanted no part in it and he had wanted to make that as clear as possible.

Tragically, he had been equally unable to empathize with those who truly were moved by his mother's death.

He had sensed the dishonesty of the many and failed to see the honest grief of the few.

Until his father's reaction he had not understood how utterly cruel his words had been.

He had learned much since that day, about the hearts of men.

The wilds of Ithilien had taught him the rest.

How could he not follow its call, however strange it seemed? However fey? How could he not trust in its guidance without suspecting a terrible scheme or elaborate trap behind it all?

The beasts and nameless spirits that roamed the valleys, the disembodied sounds at night and shrieks during the day, the moss and ferns, bushes and trees, the rich, black earth, the water and dust… they were his familiars. He felt the land's heartbeat and with every step and touch and intake of breath, every sip of water, every bite of meat, every root or berry the land and he became closer.

Would not the siren call of some magical foe luring him off his path differ from all of that?

Would it not feel different? Betray itself? Would he not recognize it for what it was, like he could sense the presence of orcs and the cruelty of men?

Faramir had suffered his first severe wound in Ithilien, taken his first lover, lost his first friend, celebrated his first victory, laughed and screamed, whispered and cried himself to sleep. Ithilien knew and it took what he offered to complete the circle.

The land had become part of him and he part of it. They were connected by the water he drank from its wells and the blood he spilled on its earth. The forest offered him and his men shelter and they in turn doused wild fires and kept axes away from ancient trees.

Most of the rangers had felt and shared the horrified outcry of the land itself when the first orc had set foot on it. They all, but especially the older ones, viewed themselves as protectors and protected alike.

For Faramir it went a little farther than even that.

He did feel accepted by the land, welcomed, each time he returned from one of his journeys, even comforted at times. Ithilien had always seemed strangely sentient to him. Friendly, motherly, even.

Yet, never had it called out to him like that. Never had be felt the mist wrap around his wrists like ice-cold fingers and the silent wind urge him forward.

Never would he have dreamt of such an experience.

Never would he have thought it would be that terrifying.

Unseen eyes were watching him. Invisible hands, grabbing, pulling, pushing.

_Make haste, child! Make haste!_

Faramir stumbled. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed by it all. He had to support himself against a tree trunk, just for a moment, catch his breath.

The looming shadow of Mordor, he knew what it felt like. He would recognize it, were something similarly sinister at work here, wouldn't he?

A branch brushed against his shoulder and he very nearly screamed.

He clenched his hands into fists and berated himself.

_Quite a ranger you are. Your beloved trees scare you witless._

And then he saw the body.

Not far from him, just a few steps more, near one of the larger boulders, somewhat sheltered from what little wind and rain the trees allowed through.

A man, from what Faramir could tell. A large man, rather tall and surprisingly muscular, dark skinned.

_An Easterling?_

He certainly wasn't a poor peasant living near the border, a hungry thief or escaped prisoner. He looked far too well fed and too well built for that.

Nothing on or around him indicated where he had come from or how he had ended up in the middle of one of Ithilien's best protected forests.

And yet he lay there, as if he had fallen straight out of the stormy sky, defying all logic and laws of nature. He lay there, curled into himself as if in great pain, but now motionless.

_A soldier, then? A chieftain, at least. Without any emblem or... anything that might indicate his rank? No horse, no pack, no jewelry, no weapons, no cloak, no... nothing? He doesn't even wear boots!  
><em>

The most astounding and most alarming detail, however, remained: _He made it this far into Gondor undetected?_

Faramir couldn't believe it and yet, that seemed to be exactly what he was looking at.

_He cannot have made it past our watchers unnoticed, especially in the condition he is in. He cannot possible have made it! We would have spotted him right away! We should have!_

And they would have killed him on sight. Denethor's order for his rangers had been clear: Leave no Easterling that dares crossing our borders alive.

Faramir pushed himself away from the tree he had been leaning against and carefully scanned the area. In the shady twilight of the trees it was always difficult to see anything but whispering shadows. The sound of the rain blocked out almost every other noise. Yet, this was Ithilien. This was Faramir's home. Shadows and the tiniest change in temperature or just the hint of an unusual scent would have been enough to give away any intruder. He _knew _this place.

_Or so I thought until now._

Faramir held his breath.

No, there was none else. The man was alone. And he had been alone for quite some time, Faramir estimated. His body was cold and the ground around him untouched, while the rain had already started to cover him in dirty rivulets and with small leaves.

Drawing one of his knives, Faramir carefully approached the prone figure.

A small moan alerted him that the man was, against all odds, still alive.

Yet, despite his better judgment, Faramir sheathed his weapon as naturally as he had drawn it, before he pushed back his hood and made his decision.

Ithilien had called him here. The land had wanted him to find this man, urged him to find this man, and, more importantly, it seemed to accept this stranger's presence.

The way the grass around the boulder bent towards the man and how the trees shielded him from the storm... it seemed almost intimate. It was certainly different from any way nature here reacted to orcs, or even hostile men.

That aside, the man was wounded, badly wounded if what Faramir could tell from a distance was any indication: Torn clothes, impossible to distinguish his affiliation by, bruises and blisters, dried dark and bright fresh blood and at least some broken bones, judging from the odd angles in which legs and arms were bent._  
><em>

_What happened to you?_

Faramir could easily have turned away then, but he did not.

He was no man of pity, especially not towards his enemies, but he did feel compassion, even towards them, and he could not deny it.

_Denethor must never know._

Easterling or no, this stranger was badly wounded, yet still alive and obviously in great pain. He was all alone and he needed help, or mercy, at least. That much was clear.

Despite his father's strict order, Faramir was not willing to withhold either.

"Do not be afraid. I am here to help. I offer you my help. There probably isn't much I can do, but... let me see..." Faramir did not expect the man to understand him. Even if he understood the language, he was probably too far gone to make out any specific words. However, Faramir felt he needed to make at least some kind of noise when approaching the stranger. Like any wounded creature, the man needed to know someone was there. Faramir hoped his voice sounded at least somewhat reassuring.

"What happened to you?" He asked without expecting an answer, as he crouched down next to the broken body and slowly reached out to touch him.

Receiving no reaction at all, Faramir carefully supported the man's head and turned him on his side. All the while he meticulously took note of all the small and bigger wounds he found all over the stranger's body and connected them to possible remedies he carried with him or could possibly find nearby. Primary among them were clear water and some basic healing herbs, as well as his hunting knife.

He was no healer, nor had he packed for this journey expecting to chance upon someone so severely wounded. Both, his supply and his knowledge were depressingly limited.

Faramir gritted his teeth as he took in the battered form before him.

The man's breathing seemed strong, no more arrhythmic than to be expected from someone in great pain, which was surprising.

By far the worst part were his limbs, twisted and dislocated, as though he had been tortured and afterwards simply been thrown away from a great high. As well as his eyes – by the Valar! His eyes! They weren't just closed, they looked as though they had been burned close, like one would close a bleeding wound with hot iron.

_Who did this to you?_

Faramir shivered.

There was no way of telling how bad the man's possible internal injuries were, but chances were high that killing him was the most Faramir could do for him. And, maybe, a last act of kindness: some water, maybe, easing at least a little of his pain and offer some gentle words.

"There...there...it is alright... shhh...I won't harm you..." He whispered, hesitantly caressing the man's forehead. "I've got you now...you are safe now...as safe as can be... you are no longer alone... do not fear...I found you now...I am here to help...maybe I can-" and then he gasped.

"No." Faramir breathed. "You are no Easterling."

Neither was he of any other human nation.

The man in front of him, with his inky black hair and surprisingly dark skin, covered in grime, in blood and dirt and sooth and so badly burned in several places, this pitiful creature... was an elf.


	3. Chapter 3

When the elf came to, all he found at first was numbness. A great, lurking, silent nothingness where his senses should be. He felt strangely detached, like floating in an altogether too salty ocean, unable to struggle to get out or dive to reach the solid ground underneath, while his eyes and lungs burned and salt stung in wounds he couldn't see.

His senses were not yet truly his and his body refused to obey him, while his mind was already fully awake and working furiously on analyzing the situation he found himself in.

Waking dreams felt a lot like this, he wagered, awake, but paralyzed and disorientated.

Flashes of moments long past appeared, like shreds of dying dreams, and were lost forever: fire and ash, salt and sea. Blood and pain. Pain in voices, in faces, reflected in blue steel and teary eyes, in bodies mutilated beyond recognition, in dirty, brown puddles, dark blood and orange flames. Heat, biting cold. Faces he had once known. Hair crusted in salt, a laugh, hands washed in warm, red blood, scorched clothes, breath steaming, whispers, golden embers, white fletching, ripped banners depicting a star and colored fields, still speaking clearly of their former splendor, black night, mountain riffs, hammer and anvil, morning clouds, yellow grass, battle cry. Silence.

Pain. There was the pain. He was in pain. Silver white pain, flaring up and dying down as quickly, leaving only shivering darkness.

Life seemed so far away.

His hearing was muffled and his tongue leaden. Breathing seemed too strenuous to him and it took his basest survival instinct to convince him to continue. He couldn't seem to open his eyes and he dreaded what would happen should he finally be able to bring this obviously broken body to move.

He had seen his share of battles and had been wounded many times over, mortally, even.

Yes, he could imagine what would happen next, as soon as his fëa had completely adapted to this new hröa it had been planted into.

Hadn't they said it would resemble his old existence?

_Liars._

They hadn't deceived him for the first time. He should have known better. Not that they had given him much of a choice in the first place. They never did. To anyone.

He knew that there was more, much more to it.

Many of the memories of his past life were missing. He knew there were things that had to have happened, but he had no recollection of. In fact, he could clearly make out where the great forgetting had taken their place, smoothing over the gaps hacked into his fëa.

Other memories were still there, but the emotions connected to them were few, too few. Those memories were like roses, with their leaves and thorns ripped off, leaving only a single, crumpled petal on a spindly stem stripped of its skin.

The Valar had deceived him. They had deceived him and they had stolen from him that which was most precious to him.

Only very slowly the realization sank in, leaving him momentarily stunned, fury smoldering on the very edge of his consciousness, hate slowly burning.

He was trapped, caught in this new shell he would never have chosen for himself, his mind mutilated and debilitated, cut off from the outside world. Not even screaming seemed possible to him now, without a mouth. What was left of his mind was too exhausted to reach out to whoever might be out there and his body did not respond.

Had the Valar finally devised a new torture for him, it was one that would have made Morogth pale.

He had been hollowed out. They had robbed him of many essential pieces that had made him into the person he had been and even left him with the knowledge of his loss, a knowledge that frightened him more than anything.

Incomplete. Naked and incomplete. The weakest, most vulnerable he had ever been.

What he did not consider, was the possibility that his fëa by itself had shut itself off from the worst memories and the terrible, burning madness that had driven and consumed him in the end, as a result of the life that had made those memories. He did not consider, that, maybe, it needed to, in order to survive – or be born again.

For him all that mattered –all that could possibly matter was that something was missing.

That this loss might be a small gesture of mercy, allowing him to stand a loss even greater, played no part in his reasoning.

The elf almost longed for the pain to set in, so he would be able to take his mind off all that was missing._  
><em>

_I should have stopped them. I should have refused. I should have fought-_

His thoughts ended abruptly when the first real impression of his new life broke through to him: The scent of rain. The sensation that he was breathing and that air reached his lungs, filled his body. He was breathing, breathing clean, fresh air like one dying of thirst tastes the first drops of sweet water.

It was so powerful, so frighteningly, overwhelmingly beautiful that tears gathered in his eyes. Yet, they did not fall and he was greatful for it. At least this further humiliation he would be spared.

Someone was close.

This was the second sensation that registered with him: The closeness of someone, a gentle voice whispering nonsense words. Deep it was and warm, kind like that of an ancient healer and full of honest compassion only the very young and innocent still know._  
><em>

_I have not yet fully awoken to this world and already I am faced with a riddle._

He must have reacted in some way, for the voice fell silent. There was an intake of breath, followed by a moment of silence that had the elf fear the worst.

But then the voice spoke again and this time the words it formed made sense, somewhat.

"Peace." It said – he said, sounding strangely official in his heavily accented Quenya. "You are safe. Ithilien welcomes you. The trees led me to you. No more harm will come to you here."

_The _trees_ led you. Oh. Great_. The elf thought. _A lowly woodland sprite. My savior is a lowly woodland sprite._

That, at least, would explain the clumsy dialect and the name of a land he had never heard of before, not even in the Halls of Waiting. The wood-elves in their strange ways were probably the only ones to called it that way. It probably wasn't even their land.

_Tawarwaith._ He had heard the name those people had given themselves. A Sindarin name, of course. Even keeping his distance he had heard it in the Halls of Waiting often enough. Seldom was it spoken in awe or great respect in the light of noble deeds or great craftsmanship. There were no outstanding personalities among them, nor any great accomplishments made by people of their kind. They even and easily mingled with the Atani, humans as they called themselves, it was said.

They were of Telerin origin and rather simple in nature, feral even, rude and completely unsophisticated, from what he had gathered. Had he known he would eventually end up with one, he would have paid more attention. Maybe.

He would get away from these savages, that had apparently chanced upon him, as soon as he was able to, find his own people and make sure they remembered who they truly were and what they were capable of.

He would take his rightful place once more and he would make the Valar themselves regret stealing from him.

When he tried to move, the pain that had been suspiciously absent so far finally shook him with all its might.

Someone screamed, hoarse and pitiful, and he was only vaguely aware that it might be him.

Blessed numbness followed once more, blackness, peaceful unconsciousness. No matter how much he would have hated it otherwise, feeling defenseless and vulnerable, he was glad for it now.

Time passed, the elf didn't know how much. He had no way of knowing. Only the voice remained. It was his only constant in this maelstrom of conflicting thoughts, hindered sensations and overlapping realities. As he drifted in and out of unconsciousness he heard it, always close, always comforting.

It resembled a caress, he thought, and that he liked it, even though he would never have admitted that under other circumstances.

Were he fully awake he would not have trusted a dubious savior of apparently Telerin descent. A savior that had too much reason to turn against him in the most cruel and vicious ways, while others would stand by, watch and call it just.

At least that much was still left of his memories: He knew many would not take to his return kindly.

The elf was no fool. He realized that the Valar had tricked him in more than one way by sending him back like this. If his new hröa in anything resembled the form he had burned to ashes when he had died, they would recognize him. Anyone would recognize him. And many still thirsted for revenge.

Why then was he still alive? Was his savior that simple minded? Or was he simply that sadistic, preferring to nurse his victim back to awareness before-

"My lord?"

The elf flinched. A hand had touched him. How many others were there?

"My lord..."

The voice was close, so it was probably his savior's hand, too. No one else. At least: not close. Whatever he said, the elf did not understand. Shortly afterwards something hard pressed against his lips. He turned his head away, but someone held him. He could offer no real resistance. His lips were forced open and a sour, viscous liquid invaded his mouth. He had no choice. His hand would not lift, his head was held in a vicious grip. He could not defend himself. All he could do in order not to choke was swallowing convulsively, whatever the liquid contained.

It burned in his throat and left a dry aftertaste in his mouth. His stomach contracted painfully, his body shivered and his breath hitched. Helplessly he gasped for air._  
><em>

_What did you give me? What did you do to me? What are you doing to me?!_

Hands closed around his wrists and immobilized him when he had not realized he had been able to move at all. Someone held him close. He was pressed against a hard chest, a steady heart beating softly underneath his head, while strong arms were securely wrapped around him. Trapped. He was trapped and yet, it didn't feel like being trapped. No, not anymore.

He caught the scent of damp hair and bitter herbs.

"Easy." His savior said. "It was but water. Just water. I know it hurts, but you have to drink. I will not make you eat, not yet. But you will have to, eventually. It hurts now, but it will get better. You must have spent a long time without. Too long." His clothes rustled. The fabric felt rough and stiff against the elf's cheek. "I do not want to hurt you. I am sorry I did, but it had to be done. You need to drink if you want to live. I am here to help. I will not harm you... I am a friend."

_What would you know._ The elf thought.

"You were wounded badly. It...will take time... heal... It will take time to heal. For your body."

_I haven't witnessed such a clumsy attempt at Quenya since Kanafinwë was little.  
><em>

His savior really was a commoner, then.

_A wood-elf._ The elf reminded himself. _A savage._

As of yet he seemed to be the only one. At least, the only one who came close and cared for him. Maybe there were others and they kept their distance?

There was no way for him to tell conclusively. The few noises he was able to pick up sent conflicting messages. Rustling, movement, of course, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It seemed alarmingly close and endlessly far away at the same time. He smelled no fire, no smoke, only the remains of it in his savior's clothes, mixed with a strange, sweet and grassy note, charred leaves.

Where they still outside?

He thought that, maybe, he heard a dripping noise, rain, or what was left of it after a storm.

His hair was wet, falling unbound over his shoulders, he could tell. But his body had been dried of. Something scratched against his numb, naked skin. A cloak or a blanket of some sort.

Had they found shelter? Where?

Some makeshift hut? A cave? A dirty hole in the ground or a rotten tree?

He tried to move, but all it earned him was a stab of real, searing pain, instantly spreading through his entire body.

And what a useless, broken body it was!

A body, that condemned him to a drugged half-life in the arms of a savage stranger that would kill him should he realize who it was he had taken under his wing!

The elf was furious. Somewhere deep down he knew that his savior deserved none of the disdain directed at him. He knew that he only aimed his anger at this stranger in particular, because there was no one else close. Yet, right there and then he couldn't care less.

_The great, almighty Valar see fit to return me after years of... They return me, under the pretence that I prove myself and earn my place in Valinor after all. I awake... I awake in this condition... in this...broken, shameful body... mutilated and defenseless and...and... utterly, utterly useless and... in the arms of...of... a...a worthless savage?! HOW AM I TO PROVE ANYTHING LIKE THAT?! Damn you! DAMN YOU ALL! I swear I will make you pay for this humiliation!_

His savior seemed to sense his inner turmoil and those perfectly warm arms ever so carefully wrapped around him once more. Gentle hands started caressing his temples. He felt breath against his hair and a soft humming made him relax against his will.

_Damn it, he was so exhausted._


	4. Chapter 4

He must have fallen asleep, for when he woke, following another wave of pain and nausea, more and more sensations flooded his still slightly drowsy mind.

The scent of rain was gone, as were the arms that had held him through the worst of it. Instead, he felt the cold, really felt it for the first time in his new life. Rough linen rubbed against his skin and the scent of hay and wood-smoke filled the close air. He also could not seem to open his eyes. Something seemed to cover them.

He heard voices nearby. They spoke in a very rustic, clumsy mutilation of Sindarin, mingled with something else altogether that the elf could not identify.

"You need rest." Was something he understood being said. "Come a long way... long way ahead..." As well as: "Not worth it."

A pained groan escaped the elf's throat as he tried to roll himself on his side.

A door closed and over the noise of his own, ragged breath he could no longer follow the conversation on the other side.

The next thing he became aware of, was a weight sinking down on the makeshift bed next to him. Hands caught his just when he tried to bring them up to his eyes and remove whatever kept him from opening them. Callous hands that smelled of horse and herbs, faintly of blood and warm skin. They gave their owner away easily.

"You." The elf rasped.

He could feel his savior's smile on the other side of the barrier formed by their entwined fingers.

Why would he smile in a moment likes this?

"I am taking you to Minas Tirith." He explained in a low voice. The kind of voice children and lovers use when they secretly steal away at night. "I know... Mablung tells me I am being foolish. But the healers there will be able to help you, more than I could out here. Some of your wounds require the care of more experienced healers."

_It's my eyes._ The elf realized suddenly. He didn't know how he knew. _Something happened to my eyes._

And his savior hadn't told him, for some reason, couldn't tell him._  
><em>

_Why? What happened to me? What happened to my eyes?! Why do you shrink from telling me?! Why do you lie to me when what you really think is that I am beyond help from any healer?!_

The elf opened his mouth, but the only result was a tiny sob escaping him.

Again his savior held what the elf was now able to identify as the rim of a cup against his lips. Determined he pressed them together, lowered his head and tried to inch away.

This time his savior did not try to force him. An exhausted sigh remained his only reaction, before he got up and left. Heavy steps in boots the wrong size.

Sleep came not that easily this time and when it finally came, it brought the fire with it.

This time and many times afterwards.

_A fire so powerful it scorched his very fëa, made it crouch and hide and shrivel and curl into itself like a leaf tossed into the flames of a forge._

_He clung to his sword, even though the heat already ate at its fine blade, making it crack and crumble. He clung to it, even though the hilt already glowed like raw iron, burning through his gloves and into his palm._

_He clung to his sword. He had to. It was all he had._

_Behind the flames he could make out faces. He heard voices over the thundering of the blaze. And he knew who they were. He knew. He could never forget. Everyone. Not them. Not his family. Not his people. Not-_

_He screamed. He smelled his own flesh burning and didn't care. His onslaught was furious and without grace. He didn't care. He attacked blindly, hacking at any part of his enemy he could reach. There was no time to aim, no time for tactics, only brute force. No more time!_

_Once he was hit._

_Twice._

_The pain blinded him._

_His body shook from the sheer force of the third hit._

_He screamed, his throat raw from smoke and heat._

_The forth stroke from his enemy's hand seemed to cleave him in half._

_He spit out the blood that filled his mouth and pushed himself up._

_The fire closed in on him, enveloping him, swallowing him whole._

_Shrill had his screams become. The heat lifted up his cloak and hair in a bizarre, last dance, before turning both to ash, and the sword fell from his charred fingers._

He knew he had not died like this. He could as well have. Instead, his death had been slow, almost deliberate, all the while leaving him fully aware that he was dying and that there was nothing he or anyone else could do against it. It had been agonizing and humiliating, until his proud fëa had not been able to stand it any longer.

He had died and yet he was alive.

Alive.

Awake.

Warmth.

Blanket wrapped around him.

Tight.

He couldn't move.

Lying on his back.

He couldn't open his eyes.

It hadn't happened for the first time. The nightmare was a reoccurring one. He had dreamt it so often now, he had lost track of time. Every time he fell asleep. Every time.

How many nights had passed? How many days? How often had he fallen asleep and dreamt? How often had he woken like this, only to fall asleep again, too exhausted to fight it, to return to the exact same place, the exact same nightmare?

Sweat trickled down over his forehead. It burned where his skin was raw and scratched.

His chest ached from the force of his desperate gasps for air.

Alone. He was - not alone.

Someone got up from where he had to have been sitting nearby. A chair creaked and his steps were slow and clumsy. He sat down next to the elf, his calm presence blocking out the agitated voices on the other side of the door.

"Water." The elf demanded and his savior complied, as though he had already been waiting with the cup in hand. He probably had.

How often over the last few days had he done the same?

The elf took his time, sipping slowly and his savior let him. When he finally put the cup down and got up it was empty.

The elf forced his burning muscles to relax and tried his best to breathe more evenly.

Someone must have opened to door. The voices were much closer now, clearer, louder and more agitated. Only that of his savior remained gentle and hushed, a little tired, maybe.

"You have to leave." Was what the elf understood of their conversation. "Those screams... unless you can somehow—"

"Stop them?" His savior asked without anger. "No. He has his battle to fight. This has to happen. We can only wait and hope to ease-"

"Has to happen?"

"As fever may be a good sign, those nightmares might be as well. His body is fighting. His soul is as well."

"He is dying and he is delirious!"

"No."

"Do not let your kindness deceive you. It is obvious. I have seen death. I know what it looks like. _This_ is what it looks like."

"Mablung."

What an utterly graceless name. The elf was glad he didn't yet know what those savages called his savior by. It could only serve to lessen what little respect the elf held for him.

"Those screams... they are unsettling everyone and they are heard outside as well. There are questions. They ask questions. I cannot keep on lying to them. Not like that. Not even for your sake. You cannot stay any longer. I'm sorry."_  
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"Thank you." The elf heard his savior say. "I know you have done all you could for me."

"You will not make it." Another voice said and the elf felt a disapproving gaze rake over his battered form. He hated that one instantly, as much as he hated his inability to defend or even cover himself. "He will not. Three days are not enough, elf or no. Look at him!" There was a pause, some movement. "I know you are a good man, but he is not worth it... How do you even know..."

"Damrod!" Warned his savior, but the other continued.

"Look at his coloring! You know where he comes from! Anyone can tell!"

_I am Noldorin. The Valar did not change my appearance. I knew it would matter._

Someone had been bound to notice at some point. Someone had to object.

He had been lucky that his savior, so far, had not seemed to care. Very lucky, indeed.

The elf flushed in shame and wished he could burry himself deeper in the rough blankets.

"Let him die. It would only be just!" One of the others demanded.

Yet, his savior's voice remained decisive: "He is gravely wounded, Damrod. He needs help."

"And help you have given him! As far as possible. You're done now. You're done!"

"Let it go, brother." The other, Mablung, said.

"I have taught you better, whelp."

"You are my senior, Damrod. I respect you and I am grateful for all you have taught me and for all that you've done for me. I value your advice, you know I do. Do not think otherwise. But this is something I will not discuss with you."

"You will—"

"I still am your superior in rank. You do well to remember that."_  
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"This is madness! I am not having any of this! In what way has this beast bewitched you? You endanger yourself for someone who is already dead...someone like that."

"He lives yet." The elf's savior said. "He recognizes me. He may not be fully alert, but he is making progress. He is not lost yet. He is strong." Again, this sad, warm smile that, to the elf, was almost palpable in the room. He didn't need to see it to know it was there. "Thank you, my friends. We will be gone by the morrow." Nothing else.


	5. Chapter 5

The elf didn't know where this 'Minas Tirith' was supposed to be located or what exactly expected him there, but he had gathered that the way was long enough and potentially dangerous. It surprised him therefore that his savior was willing to take that risk, for the both of them. The other had struck him as someone less daring and more thoughtful, rather of the kind that plans each step with utmost care and in the end forgets to lift its feet. Wood-elf, sitting on trees, watching moss grow.

Maybe he had done him injustice there.

Soon enough, just like his savior had promised his people, the elf found himself on horseback, tucked into a thick blanket and an additional cloak. Both, quite obviously, served more than one purpose: they kept him protected from cold, wind and rain, helped stabilizing his sore and broken limbs, and they kept prying eyes unsatisfied.

His savior had to hold some kind of power. While there were murmurs and the noise of people gathering around them at first, they fell silent and the elf could hear them shuffling and disperse, after his savior had lifted his arm. He said something, too, but the elf didn't understand any of the words and before he could think about it anymore, his savior clicked his tongue and the heavy horse he had been seated upon moved. It moved fast at first, a canter of sorts, that shook his splinted and bandaged body less than the elf would have expected, partially because of the vice-like grip his savior had on him, making sure he didn't slip.

They left what might have been a settlement behind quickly. Only then did they slow down and his savior's hold on the elf loosened a little.  
>Had the elf been given the choice, he would not have agreed to traveling in his condition at all. He was no weakling, but he was no fool either. Had it been for him, he would have demanded they bring a sufficiently qualified healer to him. Preferably a clean, well learned one of Noldorin decent. Not some wood-elf soothsayer or Sinda butcher.<p>

Admittedly, though, adjusting to his new life had drained him too much to protest, his body, of course, was still too weak to offer any resistance with and with his back resting against his savior's chest he felt surprisingly comfortable.

He had no doubts that the other had added something to his drink that morning and for once he was grateful for it. It dulled the pain considerably and for the moment allowed him to forget about the cold, frightening unresponsiveness of his broken legs.

While his body had not once stopped hurting now that his fëa had almost fully adapted to it, the pain, for the most part, had been reduced to a level that he could bear.

It helped a great deal that he had no acute emotional trauma to deal with. At least, none connected to this body and its injuries. A minor detail that had killed elves before. They had received mere scratches, but had been unable to heal due to what had caused them and had faded quickly.

Had the elf not been used to pain from his past life as a warrior, it might also have been more difficult for him. But as things stood he could almost allow himself to doze off a little.

And so he did during most of their journey.

Being outdoors did wonders, too. They traveled often at night, when the streets were empty. Underneath the starlight the elf felt his body tingle, telling him that he had begun to recover. The frequency of his nightmares had lessened, too.

He knew that he healed much faster than any elf would have under different circumstances.

Part of this speeded recovery he naturally attributed to himself. His fëa, despite everything, still was not that of just any ordinary elf. He had been a great lord once. He had been known for his strength, both physical and mental. That his healing capacities, even now, should prove greater than those of others did not surprise him.

Additionally to that he had to give his savior credit, he knew.

His savior had to be working some sort of silent healing magic intrinsic to his kind.

While naturally gifted Noldorin healers were rare, the elf had heard that their close connection to nature allowed most wood-elves a certain, subtle influence on anything living, be it flora or fauna. That included elves. And him, apparently. It was a gift that grew more powerful over the years. Naturally, after a few millennia of practice it had be good for more than just helping plants grow and calm nervous horses._  
><em>

It explained why the closeness of his savior affected him so and why he allowed it in the first place.

Magic, especially of the alluring, bewitching kind had never held much of a sway over him. He was hard to seduce. His greatest love had always been his work and his greatest desires had always been connected to what he himself could create with his own two hands. He needed no empty promises for that, no whispered enticements, and he was arrogant enough to assume that he would reach his most lofty goals anyway, without help and against all odds.

He had always known himself to be the most gifted, most skillful, strongest and most beautiful elf among them all. For the longest time he had held all the power he needed in order to achieve whatever he wanted. Not to mention that what he had wanted had been surprisingly little.

Brining his many talents to good use and being complimented for it, treated with the respect he deserved, had always been enough to satisfy him.

Immersed in a new project and locked into his workroom he had needed and cared for nothing else. Neither his beautiful wife, nor his adorable young sons had managed to distract him then. Not to mention the few lovers he had had, after having left his wife behind once and for all.

He had loved her, in a way, but they had been young and it had not been enough.

It was said that he loved as he fought: passionate and forceful, quick.

His love for his craft had been the only one that had not been fleeting, never.

Generally he would have been the last elf to crave snuggling up to someone and sleep peacefully in his arms. If anything, he was the one who embraced, his sons, for example. But that was as close as closeness got. He had never been one for cuddling. But then, he had never been seriously sick or that gravely wounded while actually taking the time to heal.

Blaming some fey healing magic, he let his heavy head loll to the side until it came to rest against the crook of his savior's neck and with a satisfied sigh he allowed his body to sag a little more against him. A soft chuckle was his reward and the fleeting caress of a gloved hand over his cocooned torso.

Unbidden an image of his savior took form in the elf's mind.

Despite everything he had a noble air about him. Maybe he was less sophisticated than a Noldor, but still. He was strong, controlled and calm. Yet, he was dressed in rugs - the elf had felt as much when he had touched his savior's clothes- and he moved with the clumsiness of one who rolled in the dirt with wolves and climbed rocks and trees rather than marble stairs. His skin was rough and dirty. He was broader than most wood-elves he had seen, sturdier, more Noldorin, less ugly. He probably had blond or reddish hair, unwashed and matted like some animal's winter coat. The elf hadn't touched it yet, but he itched to.

He might not be one easy to seduce, but his burning curiosity at times got the best of him.

Yes, he was convinced that his savior had to be a Silvan elf, but in his mind he was still beautiful. A jewel just waiting to be unearthed and polished to reveal its true splendor.

The only possibility the elf didn't ponder on the verge of sleep was what would happen should someone attack them on their journey to this Minas Tirith. Not once did he wonder how well trained a fighter his savior could possibly be or if he could defend them at all.

A mistake that haunted him in his dreams.

_He had just checked on the soldiers on night-watch duty. Among them two of his younger sons. He liked to make sure they were doing well. It was a balmy night, velvety and silent. Too silent.  
><em>

_The sudden ruckus breaking out amidst the tents of one of his older sons' divisions immediately caught his attention. There was no real need for him to interfere. His commanders knew how to discipline their soldiers. This was war. They could not afford any drunken brawls amidst their own ranks and usually it did not happen. Only sometimes, in nights like this, hot tempers clashed. Some of their soldiers were still too young to know better. They had to be taught.  
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_His eyes darkened in anger and he approached.  
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_Distractions like this, breaches in discipline, they could be decisive and deadly in case of a surprise attack. Their enemy was cunning. They could not afford a single slip, a single moment of distraction.  
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_The elf clenched his hands into fists.  
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_A circle of spectators had formed around two youngsters.  
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_Both were similar in appearance, dark-haired and grey eyed, though one seemed a little older and bulkier in shape. His movements were different, too. He moved as though he were used to a broadsword, heavy weaponry, only recently introduced to them. It came natural to him. His force lay in his arms and strong torso, heavy legs. He handled the long rod he had pulled out of the ground as though it were one of the fabled new weapons and he had grown up wielding it.  
><em>

_The other, however, the younger, moved with feline grace and the footwork of an archer, cornering his prey on treacherous terrain before striking to kill. Sinews and fine muscles shifted underneath his golden-hued skin. Every single fiber of his body seemed to be working as he moved.  
><em>

_Already whirling dust partially hid the two combatants from view.  
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_Their struggle was fast and brutal and they didn't shrink from utilizing anything that could be used as a weapon. Their blows were hard and unrestrained. First blood had been drawn many times over.  
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_This was no training fight. This was something else altogether.  
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_The elf motioned for one of the lower ranked captains to end this madness.  
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_"Stop this at once!"  
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_Instantly the youngsters froze.  
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_The dust settled and it became clear who had won this unevenly matched fight. Wincing as he did, the younger one wiped his bleeding nose. When he made to get up, his fallen opponent grabbed him and, laughing, pulled him back on top of him, burying him in a dust covered bear-hug, before letting him go.  
><em>

_Strange as it was, the elf sensed no more animosity between them.  
><em>

_"What is this nonsense?!" The captain demanded to know, but the younger one didn't even look at him. His grey eyes, old and too earnest for one so young, locked with that of the elf. He stared at him when no one else seemed to have noticed his presence—when no one else would have dared looking him in the eye. The elf was so high in rank above all of them, most of them wouldn't have dared to even look at the tips of his boots._

_"I _can_ fight, my lord." The youngster declared. "I _can_ hold my own."  
><em>

_The elf shivered under the intensity of the youngster's glare. Unconsciously he took a step backwards.  
><em>

_He had no interest in elflings, despite what vile rumors might have said, but he knew that should this one survive until adulthood he would want him.  
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_It was then that he noticed the odd shape of the youngsters' ears: round instead of pointed like they should be, and the lack of _something _about both of them.  
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_"Who are you?" The elf whispered.  
><em>

_"Faramir." The young one said with pride.  
><em>

_And the storm broke loose.  
><em>

_The first gust of wind blinded the elf, blowing dust into his eyes. His long hair whipped around his face. The second gust was so powerful that he nearly lost his footing. He had to duck in order to not fall. The tents were ripped out of their moorings, ropes cut through the air like lashes. Screams went up all around them.  
><em>

_"To arms!" The elf heard his captains cry. "We are under attack! Get ready! To arms!"  
><em>

_Everything around them exploded in a flurry of action. Names were called out, weapons grabbed.  
><em>

_Dust, running. Stench. More shouts.  
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_"Urulóki!" The warning-call went up, traveling from mouth to mouth as the wind tried to silence them. "Urulóki!"  
><em>

_"No." The elf whispered, eyes wide in horror. "No! There are no fire-drakes in this region!"  
><em>

_This was wrong, all wrong! There were not supposed to be fire-drakes! There could not be!  
><em>

_The moon disappeared behind dark wings and the fist columns of black smoke. Darkness swallowed everything around him.  
><em>

_Fire rained down on them from above.  
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_Fire.  
><em>

_Fire_ again! Damn it! Damn it all!

_Like hungry crows they started circling above them. Yet, they attacked as fast as falcons, spitting fire down on them through their terrible, gaping mouths, equipped with rows and rows of razor-sharp teeth, long before they came within shooting range.  
><em>

_He saw them coming. He saw the fire. He felt the heat. And he could not move. He could not move.  
><em>

_Suddenly hands closed around his waist and someone pulled him aside. They fell, rolling over the packed dirt and they remained lying there, motionless.  
><em>

_All was silent. Silent, until the first, shy tendrils of a song reached for the elf. They closed around him like the hands had closed around his waist, timidly tugging at first, then pulling more adamantly._

The stank of death and fire disappeared first. It was replaced by the scent of earth, wool and horse.

The heat turned into pleasant warmth. The storm into a gentle breeze.

Only the face of the raven-haired youngster remained in front of him, his body lying next to him, even after he had fully awoken.

"You are awake." He said and the vision changed. It aged, features growing more pronounced, sharper, stronger around the eyes and the jaw-line. The eyes themselves remained the same, but they closed slowly and fever-sweat glistened on the adult's brow. Fire engulfed him, as though he lay on a great pyre, as the vision finally faded.

_Awake._

Only the voice had been real. The elf knew his eyes were useless. They no longer saw. It had been a dream. He was awake now. His savior's soft singing had woken him. If murmuring words in a soft voice without any real melody to it could be counted as singing.

"My singing is terrible, isn't it?" His savior chuckled when the elf made an approving noise. "My brother tells me so all the time, but it calms me." He hesitated. "I apologize. I didn't know you were awake. You didn't seem to mind the other time. You slept more peacefully."

"No." The elf pressed out.

"No?" His savior asked, confused as to what he meant.

"Continue."

"Continue my terrible singing?"

The elf grunted.

_Yes._

His savior was a terrible singer. That was not unheard of among elves, but it was indeed rare. Oddly enough, it was his lack of skill that made his singing beautiful.

There was no real melody to it and he failed to follow a straight rhythm without even noticing it. His deep, quiet voice made his inability to strike any right notes bearable. There was a clumsy, touching honesty to his singing that many accomplished musicians lacked. It was intimate and innocent and it wrapped itself around him, blocking out the remaining shadows of his nightmare, as well as the resurfacing memories of slaughter and carnage he had actually witnessed long ago.

_Wood-elf magic._ It had to be.


	6. Chapter 6

_**Thank you so much for your reviews! I try to upload at least one chapter a day. They aren't that long, anyway. However, I can't promise anything. (Life, it happens.) Just: I'll do my best! :)**_

_**I'm glad some of you seem to like this fic so far! I've been (and am) afraid it might bore you at times. Too much exposition, too many musings, too much landscape, too little action, too much agonizing elf... you know. Please let me know if you're fine with the pacing and... just basically everything so far. There'll be more action and a more alert elf in the next chapters, I promise!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

* * *

><p>Faramir sighed and watched the smoke of his pipe mingle lazily with the mist that started rising, now that another sudden shower of rain had stopped.<br>He had propped up their pack and Rochallor's gear against a fallen tree, before sitting down and leaning against it, but it helped little to make his position more comfortable. His back and legs had grown stiff after a while and moisture had long seeped through every inch of his clothing.

His horse grassed contentedly a fair way off as to not immediately draw attention to him and the elf should someone, against all odds, leave the road and come across it.

All seemed quiet, though.

In the brush around them Faramir could hear the first, isolated calls of evening birds and the hectic after-rain-rustling of several small mammals. His stomach growled and every fiber of his body longed for a quick hunt and a more thorough inspection of their resting-place's surroundings.

They would have to leave soon enough.

However, he could not bring himself to move. The elf using his thighs as a pillow appeared to be sleeping peacefully for once, only shuddering ever so slightly every once in a while. Even in sleep the pain was still there, but it seemed to have lessened.

Faramir feared that every incautious movement would wake the elf and cause the pain to worsen once more. So he remained where he was.

The breeze carried voices with it, but they were still too far away to matter. He took a moment to listen to them anyway. It was what he needed to compose himself.

_The pain he must be in! Ever since I found him and for how long before that? How can he stand it? How can anyone possibly stand this?_

He had seen men despair over less. And while he had never carried all of these wounds all at once, he was no stranger to their kind per se. Raw skin, deep and shallow cuts and bruises, burns, bruised ribs, dislocated joints, broken bones...Faramir had to wince every time he saw the elf move.

_And yet..._

The elf reminded him a lot of his older brother in this: Equally thick-headed and tough. For Boromir pain generally appeared to be nothing more than a short warning signal that he took note of and then ignored. It had never hindered him or slowed him down in any way, that Faramir knew of. Nor had it often been able to darken his habitually astoundingly jovial mood.

_Not even when it was I who caused it._

Faramir's thoughts had drifted back towards that certain event before.

Frustrated by his father's most recent scolding regarding 'priorities in times of war' and their weapons-master's constant slight, young Faramir had grabbed the first weapon within reach, stormed up to his much-lauded brother and had taken him head-on. It had been the first and only time he had actually beaten Boromir in single combat and he cringed at the thought at how badly he _had_ beaten him. He had been so angry, he had been unable to keep it to himself any longer. He had been young and furious and he had needed that outlet so badly.

Faramir smiled. Boromir had understood. He always did. And Faramir adored him all the more because of it.

He was grateful, however, that drifting thoughts were not visible in the air and that they could not slip into someone else's mind and dreams to reveal themselves. At least, human thoughts didn't. He had read that some elves were capable of communicating mentally, even across large distances.

Something like that had to be incredibly useful. How easy complicated ideas or intrinsic designs were explained by simply sharing the original idea of them! How close one could be with loved ones, even if they were far away –especially if they were far away!

_I wish I knew your name._ Faramir thought, his fingers hovering over the elf's dark head while he listened to the voices in the distance_. I wish I knew who misses you and that I could reassure them... or ask them for help. _Slowly his fingers sank down and the elf grumbled in his sleep. _I am no healer. I know so little... there is so little I can do, so little I understand._ He didn't wake, instead he pressed his head against Faramir's hand._ I wish I could take the pain from you. _That he truly did.

No one deserved such suffering and most certainly not a creature as magnificent and pure as the elf the trees of Ithilien had allowed him to find. An elf so very different from the illusive, fickle and frail creatures his brother had constantly made fun of in their youth and so very much like the great heroes of old they all aspired to imitate ever since.

Looking down on the sleeping warrior, with his olive skin and pitch-black hair, Faramir briefly wondered if he would have made different decisions, had the wounded man turned out to be an Easterling, Southron or even orc. The thought of the latter made him shudder and he almost feared the elf would sense his disgust and be unsettled by it.

No, he could not have cared for such a foul beast in the same way he had for the elf. It pained him to think of it, but he knew by the revulsion the thought alone caused in him that he simply could not have.

Would he at least have been able to kill an agonizing orc? To show it mercy? Or would he have watched it suffer and die slowly?

Faramir delved deeper into his own mind and found that he did not have it in him to watch another creature, be they beast or man or something else altogether, suffer needlessly.

The voices were closer now. Faramir caught some of the words and curses that were tossed back and forth and he could hear the men breaking through the undergrowth.

They would be heading for the road soon, he expected, where it was easier to progress.

He would have killed the orc.

He would have killed the Easterling or Southron, too, but for other reasons. No man could have survived what the elf had. They would have found no healing, neither in mind, nor in body and, he feared, even less so in the hands of a sworn enemy.

Faramir tapped out his pipe and carefully laid it aside.

_You are different._ He thought sadly. _I hope I haven't merely prolonged your suffering. I hope you truly are as strong as I think you to be. I hope I was not mistaken._

Even cleaned and bandaged the elf's injuries were terrible. How a body, even one as athletic as this elf's, could withstand so much, Faramir did not know. Each time he changed the bandages and applied the different healing balms Mablung had grudgingly helped him prepare, his fingers trembled at the sight and his eyes filled with unshed tears. At the same time he marveled at how fast the elf's body seemed regenerate itself, how fast the bleedings had stopped and the first wounds had closed over. Swellings had gone down and there seemed to be no serious internal injuries. And he wondered if not, maybe, the elf's splintered bones weren't beyond repair after all.

_Maybe even his eyes..._

Hope was a treacherous thing, Faramir knew, but without hope, would not Gondor have fallen long ago? And weren't elves themselves creatures of magic and wonder?

Faramir remembered Mithrandir, then, very fondly.

It was thanks to his old tutor that he could communicate with the elf at all.

He had always preferred Quenya to Sindarin. His rangers often used a very muddled version of the latter to communicate. Being used to this had made it difficult for him to concentrate on the real elven language. He had slipped constantly and when Mithrandir had finally decided to teach him Quenya it had come as a relief. This had, however, been the first time he had actually spoken the words he had read and written and memorized so avidly. He had been as giddy as a child and now he felt strangely proud at what he perceived as making progress. How much the elf actually understood of his honest attempts remained to be seen.

"There is so much I long to ask you." Faramir whispered, tracing the elf's pointed ear with the tip of his thumb. _I hope you will forgive me for all I put you through and at some point we get a chance to talk. _

The elf made a soft sound at the touch and Faramir stayed his hand immediately, biting his tongue.

"Like what?" The elf breathed unexpectedly. "Ask."

"Like your name." Faramir replied softly, brushing some wayward strands of hair out of the elf's face.

"Curufinwë." The elf mumbled.

"The skillful..." Faramir frowned, realizing how little he truly knew about elves and their culture, especially when it came to how they dealt with their history, and decided to, for the moment, say nothing else. Anything he could have said concerning that name would only have served to make the elf feel uncomfortable.

"I am called Faramir." He opted for instead.

He didn't get the chance to hear the reply. Something else diverted his attention.

The animals had fallen silent. Branches snapped far too close and a shout alerted him that the men had not simply passed them by on the road as he had expected.

As gently as possible in a haste Faramir lifted the elf's upper body off his lap and lowered him to the ground, where the undergrowth offered enough cover for him to not be spotted instantly.

"Stay down and wait for me." He told him, leaving out what the elf didn't need to know. "I will try to make this quick."

"Do..n't..." The elf's hand closed around his wrist with a strength that surprised him. It almost hurt.

"I promise I won't be long." Faramir smiled and carefully pried his wrist out of the elf's grasp, before he reached for his cloak and sword. The latter to impress if necessary. He didn't think he would need his bow. "We have to be on our way soon, after all. And before that we should eat something... Wait for me. Curufinwë."


	7. Chapter 7

These men certainly weren't used to their current surroundings. They didn't seem to care that they drew attention like a purse of polished gold coins in a run-down bar of really dubious reputation, either. There was no way of not noticing them and they seemed completely oblivious to the danger they had put themselves in.

While Faramir moved through the brush unseen and unheard, so silent and carefully, in fact, that even most of the small, skittish animals took little note of his presence, these men caused a commotion that had to be heard for miles and they left a swath in the forest that would be visible for months to come.

Faramir frowned. It seemed utterly absurd to him that someone would behave in such a way, especially at nightfall and in these remote parts of Gondor that were anything but safe.

_They cannot be that unaware, can they?_

He knew that they had found Rochallor when a surprised cheer went up among them. His spirited dappled grey was quite a prize to be found in the middle of a dense forest, Faramir imagined. However, such a reaction was dangerous. Stupid and dangerous.

_Maybe they really are that unaware._

In any case, he approached warily and at the edge of the small clearing where he had left the horse, he waited.

There was no question whether or not Rochallor would allow them too close. If anything, the big horse was fiercely loyal and generally distrustful of strangers. And strangers they were, there was no doubt.

They were a group of eight men, badly equipped for travel. Their thin cloaks, colorfully embroidered tunics and delicately decorated boots seemed expensive, but of far better use for polite society and garden parties than for summer rains and undergrowth. Some of the many gem-splinters, pearls and miniature carvings seemed to already have been lost to brambles and invisible hands reaching out from moss patches and wayside puddles, cloaks were ripped and hems torn, wet and dirty.

Suddenly Faramir felt glad for his only somewhat moist clothing and Damrod's ill-fitting boots.

He was still a human, born and raised in a white, stone-walled city, always at a slight disadvantage in the wild, but at least he had years of experience to make up for it. The wild had grown to accept him as he did its whims and many creatures.

For these men it was different.

War-shunning nobles, rich merchants that seldom left their homes. Possibilities as to who they were weren't too many, but Faramir hesitated to classify just yet. Something about them wasn't quite what it seemed to be. His instincts told him that what he saw was not the whole truth and that something more sinister than a group of city-dwellers that had lost their way was at work here. He needed to be careful and maybe he indeed should have brought his bow. These men couldn't be trusted.

Yet, at the same time he heard his brother's voice, chiding him:

_"You are too wary, little brother. Be at ease! These is Minas Tirith, not your Ithilien wilds. Those are Gondorian nobles, not Easterling soldiers."  
><em>

_"Then you think I'm mistaken?" Faramir had asked.  
><em>

_"No." Had been Boromir's reply. "No one reads the hearts of men like you and father do."  
><em>

_"But-"  
><em>

_"Of course they cannot be trusted! How do you think they earned their place in this society? How do you think they keep on gaining wealth and influence, while most other people suffer under Mordor's shadow? They are dishonest, little brother. They are liars and deceivers and I bet the one or other murderer is among them, too. They are ruthless and they do not wish us well... but they are not the enemy." He had hugged him and ruffled his hair. "You are the Steward's son." He had told him, full of love and pride. "And you will be a captain, soon, too. Don't leave them any room to doubt that. Don't leave them any room to doubt you."_

Faramir almost felt his brother's sloppy kiss on his cheek once more.

_"Show them."_ He heard Boromir whisper. _"Head high, shoulders back, eyes trained high above their heads—not that high. Let's try something else. Remember those maned giant cats they keep in the East? Yea, like them. Your elves call them 'rhaw', I think. Rhaw, little brother! Rhaw! Do it!"_

Faramir almost gave himself away by suddenly bursting into the most inopportune, silly laughter.

He still could picture Boromir, hiding behind elaborate dresses and bursting-full dinner-plates, watching intently as their father's high-ranking guests closed in on his, admittedly, very nervous, little brother, mouthing: _"Rhaw!"_

Well, Boromir had had a point. It had worked to impress the nobles back then and he had only been about fifteen. It had worked ever since, even with certain council members and foreign dignitaries known for being exceptionally difficult. It could as well work now.

And wasn't he in his element here, in the wild?

As he stepped out onto the clearing the men had approached Rochallor and one just made to reach out his hands.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Faramir said, loud enough and laced with just the right amount of haughtiness to make the men freeze on the spot. "This horse may be magnificent, but it is very dangerous, too. It will bite your hand off if you move any closer."

It took a moment for them to compose themselves. The first of them only turned around to face him when Faramir had all but reached them.

Sizing him up with one raised eyebrow, however, the first man already began to grin.

"How would you know." The second asked, crossing his arms in front of him. "Are you the resident stable master of this...wood?"

Faramir smiled and, as though absentmindedly and entirely by accident, pushed his cloak aside. Just a little. Barely enough to reveal the well made sword girdled to his waist. It was, by far, no ancient heirloom and carried no meaningful name- that one was his brother's by right-, but it was reliable in battle and had always been good enough to cause an impression.

It didn't fail to do so now.

"You are... a long way from home." One of the men ventured.

"So are you, my lords." Faramir replied smoothly. "May I escort you back to the main road? The forest trails are trying here at dusk and one never knows what lurks in the shadows."

"So they say." One of the men mumbled.

"Lead on then!" Said another. He, at least, seemed considerably happy.

Faramir felt the blow before it came. A tingling, warning sensation in the back of his mind and a sudden tension in the air that made Rochallor toss his head. He heard the arrow, too, before it hit, somewhere in his lower body. But he reacted too late.

Reflexively he leaned forward. Trying to use the momentum to duck and draw his sword for a fast, upward stroke that would give him more room and the time he needed to seek shelter from or directly attack the archer, he instantly noticed his mistake. He knew, even before his fingers closed around the weapon's hilt.

Someone was too close next to him for this to work and too well prepared for this to be mere luck or coincidence. The man rammed his elbow into Faramir's back. An arm came up around him, pulling him close, while with his free hand the man ran a short, sturdy knife into his unprotected side.

One last, well aimed kick took his breath away and sent him tumbling to the ground.

Boromir would be angry.

_He taught me better._

Time passed slowly between heartbeats. The pain wasn't there yet. It would come. Later, much later.

"You killed him, you idiots!" He heard someone cry, muffled and far away.

"He had a weapon!" Came the reply.

"He's one o' them! They all got weapons! It's for show! For show! Like them damn beads and ribbons, for show! He don't know how to use that! But you killed him! You did!"

Arguing. They were honestly arguing in a moment like this. Like what? They thought they had killed him? His head hurt. Those voices were making his head hurt. Why couldn't they just shut up a moment? He tried not to groan.

Hands grabbed for him none too gently and fumbled with his clothes and the belt of his sword.

"Leave that thing! Someone will know it. They all got names and seals and stuff. They'd know we took it. Can't sell that. Leave it!"

His sword. They meant his sword. They had no idea...none at all.

_Who in the name of...?_

"But he's got nothin' else on him." Someone protested. "Gotta keep somethin' for the trouble you got us into."

"Has to keep it stacked somewhere. Close." Another voice decided. "The saddle, the pack an' all."

While they were still arguing over him, shouts went up somewhere behind them. Cries of pain, the screams of horse and man and a thundering noise that made the whole ground shake. Or so it appeared to Faramir's dazed mind.

"Leave the horse!"

"Leave the damn horse! Leave it!"

"He's right. That's a beast!"

"Search for his pack! Can't be far!"

"Hurry!'T is gettin' dark!"

"Can't just leave 'im there."

"No? He'd leave us."

"Better we're gone now."

"Move, will ya!"

"That costume's wearing me down. I got the heaviest one. See?"

Their voices were getting more and more faint, the noise in the brush more distant.

They were so loud. Even far away they were so incredibly, painfully_ loud_.

Faramir groaned. This time he did. His head reeled, like after a night of heavy drinking.

_...finwë._ He thought. _...Curufinwë- No!_

He had sworn to protect the elf, to see him safe to Minas Tirith and to see him healed. By taking the elf with him he had accepted that responsibility.

_I cannot allow this...they cannot...they must not..._

Faramir somehow managed to push himself up and when he brought his hand to his forehead and the back of his head he found blood. It wasn't much.

_Thank the Valar!_

He got to his knees and wriggled the arrow free, before throwing it away, grimacing.

Rochallor snorted softly, a few steps away.

_Have to get up...get up..._

On his knees first and then on all fours. One after the other. Step by step. Slowly. He had to take it slow. The sensation of vertigo was overwhelming._  
><em>

_I think... I'm gonna be sick..._

Feeling for it with both hands, Faramir found his sword in the tall grass. His hands felt clammy and leaden. Grabbing his sword and lifting it off the ground seemed to take incredibly long. It seemed to have grown much heavier.

Bile rose in his throat. Swallowing it down and trying hard not to move his head too much, Faramir concentrated on the task ahead.

He managed to stand and walk a few steps, sword-tip dragging over the ground behind him. Suddenly feeling lightheaded he ground his teeth and blinked against the darkness amassing just outside his field of view, threatening to swallow him. His grip on the sword-hilt tightened. He managed to lift it properly now and to loosely tie it around his waist where it belonged.

He struggled to catch his breath. It seemed better now. The ground beneath him seemed more stable and the last rays of sunlight less bright.

When he tried to run towards the edge of the clearing, however, his knees gave in once more. Trembling he managed to crawl into the relative shelter of stinging nettle and dyer's woad, before he bent over to vomit.

_Idiot!_ He called himself._ Damn, careless, idiot! You knew! You knew from the beginning and you didn't act on it! You knew!_

"Damn... damn it..."

He had to return to the elf before the men found him. _What kind of guardian am I? _And he prayed to the Valar that it wasn't already too late.


	8. Chapter 8

"See that? I told you it had to be here somewhere."

"Here's the saddle and..."

"Still don't think it's right we left 'im there."

"What are you moping about? Help me with this!"

"I tell you: He's gonna come after us."

"He's dead. He'll gonna come nowhere anymore."

"If anything, his buddies gonna coma after us if we don't get this done here."

"Here's somethin'—"

"Let me see!"

"Sweet. I knew he'd have some coin on him."

"Where this is coming from there's gotta be more. Open that bag over there. See what he's got in there."

"Look this clasp. That's from the city. I'm sure."

"Bah! Just water. Who fills his waterskin with water?!"

"The bread's good. Take."

"Water, bread. That's all?"

"What boring man."

"Few coins, a clasp...There has to be something else in there. No one travels that far for nothing!"

"No, he's gonna come! He's gonna haunt us and find us and he's gonna kill you in your sleep, because you shot him! You killed him!"

"Ain't the first."

"And you...You can't leave no corpse without burying!"

"Stop whining!"

"Oh, shut up and calm down, will ya?! We burn him when we're done here. How 'bout that? That's a deal?"

"Don't tell me you're afraid of ghosts now, too!"

"It's not good to leave the dead without burying."

"It's sacrilege."

"Attracts flies."

"We're no bad men. Not like that."

"No one will see and they won't find no corpse when they come looking."

"And no one will know what happened."

"A fire. Later. Now open this."

"Herbs. What do I know?"

"Take this..."

"Pipe-weed! At least!"

"Look here..."

"That all there is?"

"Can't believe this... he must have hidden the real good stuff in the bushes."

"Or just poor."

"Slept with his neighbor's wife and they threw him out of the city."

"Nonsense."

"He's been a pretty poor guy for a noble, wasn't he?"

"I don't believe this!"

"You know what I think... There's something wrong with that one. Really wrong."

"Yea, the horse is wrong, I tell ya. Never seen such a mad beast."

"No, the man, too."

"What ya think? We killed an elf?"

"They don't exist!"

"If he were an elf we could at least have sold him. People pay good, solid coin to see such freaks. I saw a three headed calf once..."

"We could still sell him."

"Stop this!"

"Or a magician of some sort?"

"Nonsense! Stop this nonsense! He was just a man!"

"Went down quickly, like you an' I would."

"I don't think—"

"He was just some unlucky, broke country lord. I bet. Nothing big. Don't worry."

Listening to their back and forth, Faramir leaned heavily against the boulder that hid him from view.

They had found his pack and searched it thoroughly. One of them had started to cut everything metallic off his saddle. They would take only that. It was easier to carry. Two shared the provisions he had packed. Yet, all in all they quite obviously found their prize lacking.

"We should take the damn horse."

"Are you mad?!"

"If you up to it? I won't."

At least they had not yet noticed the elf. He was either in too much pain to do anything that would give him away, or he deliberately kept still.

Either way, it was only a matter of time until they would notice him and Faramir had little doubt what would happen then. He knew with absolute certainty that he must not allow that to happen.

_But how?_

He had very few choices to pick from and they were all bad. None of them promised any real success. All of them ended in death.

The men clearly outnumbered him.

Ten. There were ten of them in total. Two must have hidden somewhere out of sight before. One of them had shot him on the clearing. Without a doubt they had some training, or at least experience, in combat and they did carry weapons, all of them._  
><em>

_Why haven't I seen the two others? Why didn't I suspect anything? Why didn't I see the weapons? How could I have been so blind?_

His stomach was empty now, but he still felt sick. His head throbbed madly and rubbing his temples didn't help much to alleviate the pain starting to build up there.

_Think, Faramir. Think!_

At least his hands were cool from where he had laid them against the rock. They felt wonderful against his forehead.

_What in the name of...?_

Something sticky clung to his palm. And now to his forehead as well. He hadn't noticed it at all, even though it was as eye-catching as could be. The substance had a very distinct, silver-blue glow to it, that shimmered brighter the darker the evening got and the warmer it got on his skin.

Faramir rubbed it between his fingers and grinned.

He remembered this from his childhood. A type of lichen that attracted nocturnal insects with its distinct glow. It had taken hours to scrub it off him and his brother after they had decorated their bodies with glowing handprints. On that occasion they had also scared their poor nursemaid witless. She, like many others, had never paid attention to the otherwise rather plain lichen and certainly never rubbed it to its full, glowing glory. She had not recognized them and instead had believed them to be malicious spirits. She had been genuinely afraid.

_Oh, sweet, gentle Nana, you taught us so much..._

Maybe he had found his solution.

All the time keeping an eye on the men, Faramir scraped a generous amount of lichen off the boulder. After rubbing it between his hands, he first coated the blade of his sword with it. The viscous substance filled the deeper etchings in the steel and highlighted them beautifully. Faramir deliberately left some of the lichen on the flat of the blade, in hopes that when he would pull it out of its sheath the drops flying off of it would fill the air in a cloud ghostly sparks.

Next he thought of Nana and his own, wrinkly fingers after hours of bathing, and with a sigh he painted his brow with some of the glowing paste, then drew finer lines along the bridge of his nose, down over his chin, along his cheekbones and underneath his eyes.

He only hoped the men wouldn't see right through this.

This was his –and by extension the elf's—best chance.

If it failed-

_It won't._

He was ready. Even though it made him angry that he had to be. He resented these men for forcing him to make this choice and break, once more, with his own morals.

Even though decidedly not enemies of war, these men had attacked him, wounded him and they would have killed him. That alone did make them his enemies and he had to view them as such. It had been one of the first things he had had to learn when he had joined the Ithilien Company. It hadn't gotten any easier._  
><em>

_May the Valar welcome you in their halls and allow you to rest peacefully ever after._

Faramir caught the first man unaware. His death was the easiest, the quickest and the least frightful. The others would suffer. Faramir could not pretend he didn't know.

He saw the naked terror in their eyes when he drew his sword and slit the throat of the second man, calling out to the rest of them: "Isn't it enough to have killed me? Do you have to rob me as well?!"

In those eyes he saw what they saw, reflected back at him: A murderer. A monster. Dead and death. A vengeful spirit, pale and ragged, with shadowed, empty eyes and blood covered hands – the blood of their companion. He was bathed in a cold, unearthly light that seemed to radiate from the very inside of his body, seeping through his broken skin. Armed he was with a sword that burned blue. And night had fallen.

The next steps were almost routine for Faramir.

He knew how to take advantage of surprise and fear, and how to quickly and efficiently disarm, dismember and kill.

His rangers had a reputation among the Easterlings and Southrons. They, too, were called ghosts. And they, too, were feared like only supernatural creatures would be otherwise.

Yes, Faramir had done this before, many times. His rangers were few and their best chances lay in distance kills and surprise attacks, in waylaying their enemies or sneaking into their camps when they least expected it, sometimes killing them in their sleep. They acted quickly and avoided direct confrontations whenever possible. And they always tried to catch their enemies unprepared.

Faramir blocked out the men's voices, their screams and cries, any noises of pain they made.

He had to.

They were always the same.

There was little glory in what he and his rangers did on a daily basis, though some took pride in it. Others took solace in the fact that they, too, did their bit to defend their people and prevented greater harm. And yet others did not think of it at all, or tried to.

Hatred, however, remained the most powerful way to momentarily forget what it was they did. It helped to think of their enemies as such and as 'the other' that deserved what was dealt out to them. Remorse would come later.

These men, these bandits that slowly, trembling and their weapons stiffly held out in front of them, backed away from him now, Faramir told himself, had killed before.

There had been no honor in shooting him on the clearing and there would be no honorable fight now, he realized, as he cut the hand and thigh of one who had tried to sneak up from behind him, while the others had feigned retreat.

They had brought it upon themselves.

The man crumbled to the ground and Faramir whirled around to face his best opponent among them.

Crossing his blade with the surprisingly well-made weapon the man had instantly drawn against him, ghost or no, Faramir realized that this one was no amateur at all.

And the others weren't either.

Even though surprised and deeply afraid, they were more than able to hold their own against him. And while desperation to save their lives drove them now and made them as careless as it made them dangerous, they did start to see the advantage they had over him by the simple fact that they outnumbered him._  
><em>

_I have to finish this quickly._

His opponents changed in rapid succession. They bought each other time and the longer their fight took, the better they worked together.

Faramir had expected as much.

This time he knew whom he was facing and he was, after all, a trained soldier. His strikes were fast and powerful and he did not flinch, neither from the blood he spilled nor his own.

While the men were driven by fury and sheer desperation and managed to break through his defense several times, he quickly gained the upper hand.

Suddenly two of the men turned and fled into the forest.

And for a brief moment Faramir was careless.

Some of the glowing substance rubbed off on one of the men attacking him. The man wasn't so stupid as to not recognize that nothing at all about it was supernatural. And before Faramir could stop him be announced his discovery for everyone to hear.

"This ain't no ghost!" He cried. "Just a normal man! He's even bleeding, you idiots! Look! That's no magic! Just a trick! A trick!"

"Kill him! Kill that bastard!" Another joined in. "Kill him for real this time!"

"Make him pay!"

A knife stroke came dangerously close and Faramir nearly dropped his sword. The searing pain in his wrist he could ignore for a moment, but his attackers' sudden boost in confidence was near impossible to counter. Within moments they had him surrounded.

All he could do was keeping them at arm's length, while they played with him like cats, certain of their prey. And they were right, he had to admit grudgingly. He would tire. The wounds they had inflicted on him would eventually wear him down. They already did, little by little. With exhaustion taking a hold of him, the dizziness returned and his vision darkened slightly. His attention would slip. He wavered.

"Die!"

But it didn't quite yet.

Faramir managed to block an attempt to slit him open right there and then. And suddenly everything happened at once.

His sword slipped from his fingers and he fell to one knee and as soon as he was down, an arrow pierced a man's throat right behind him. The man screamed, a scream that turned into a helpless gurgle almost instantly, and grabbed for it, trying to pull it out, while more and more blood came gushing out of the wound, suffocating him. His comrades could do nothing but watch in horror. And for a moment they saw nothing else.

Faramir didn't know where the arrow came from, but neither did he care. He pushed himself to his feet and with a handful of swift strokes he disarmed and killed the bandit with the broadsword, while injuring another two gravely enough to make it impossible for them to continue fighting.

A second arrow burrowed itself in the ground, right in front of their feet.

A third arrow.

And finally the alarm went up: "There's others!"

"In the trees! They have to be in the trees!"

"The colors! That's the Ithilien Company!"

"They cannot be here! They cannot—"

"Run!"

They fled.

Faramir did not follow them. They would not return and should they eventually do so, he and the elf would be long gone. Instead, he ended the suffering of the mortally wounded they had left behind and with astonishment regarded the arrows in the ground.

The fletching was indeed that of the Ithilien Company. He had to know. These were his arrows.


	9. Chapter 9

**_Hey! I'm thrilled to see new reviews! (And new readers, apparently.) You guys are awesome!_**

**_Also: Yes, he's an ass. And it's gonna get worse before it gets better. Just wait until he finds out who his savior really is. I can promise you, he won't like that one bit._**

**_Now, since this is slash fiction after all and a rule of thumb suggests to insert spicy scenes in about the same quantity as dance scenes happen in Bollywood movies... enjoy! (Honestly now, I'm not going to write a sex scene every three paragraphs. But every once in a while...what say you?)__  
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* * *

><p>The longer he stared at the arrow the more blurred the image got.<p>

Faramir swayed, reached out and failed to find anything he could hold on to. Frowning he crouched down instead and while supporting himself against the now muddy ground with one hand, he reached for the arrow's tell-tale fletching with the other.

Even without looking and with his heart beating so hard in his chest, it threatened to come out of his mouth any minute, he recognized them.

Yes, these were undoubtedly his._  
><em>

But they had not come from the trees, like the bandits had assumed. That was why two of them had buried themselves in the earth. The angle at which they had been shot had been much too shallow. The archer had to be positioned somewhere very close to the ground and he had to be an excellent archer to have hit even a single target like this.

_Like an elf._ _  
><em>

Faramir swallowed hard.

The muscles in his entire body were still so tense, it cost him to even open his mouth and speak. His lungs stung from the exertion, his arms slowly started to ache and he only just then realized that his fingers were still clenchedaround the hilt of his sword. Blood dripped from the cut on his wrist, but it no longer flowed as freely.

"...Fin...? Curu...finwë?" He pressed out.

He felt the absolute silence that followed his question like a stab to the heart. It hit where none of the bandits' weapons could have reached. And with every moment that passed, it was twisted slowly.

"Curufinwë?" Faramir repeated, feeling a lump form in his throat.

_This can't be...he has to...He saved me...The arrows...He-_

Laughter. Rough and dark and bitterly amused.

Faramir's head spun around and he angrily blinked at the unshed tears in his eyes.

There he was, the elf he had sworn himself to protect, laying on his side, half hidden by the low hanging branches of hazel and elderberry, Faramir's bow and a forth arrow on the ground, still near his outstretched hands, smirk on his chapped lips and blood on his arm, where the attempt at the actual first arrow he had tried to shoot had backfired.

_You stupid, daring, elfish bastard! You could have died!  
><em>

They both could have died. They had been so close.

The sudden realization shook Faramir to the core and for a moment he forgot to breathe.

Had only one, one tiny little thing gone wrong...

_We would have died._

The mere thought of it opened up an abyss, so gaping and profound that there seemed to be no way of escaping its pull.

Without thinking Faramir pulled the elf into his arms. He didn't care if he hurt him. He didn't care what the other would think. He hugged him as tightly as he possibly could, clawing at his tunic as he pulled him even closer. He had to make sure the elf was real, solid and breathing and still there, and he himself was, too.

Of all the reactions Faramir would have expected, what happend next was not one of them.

With a strength that seemed impossible the elf freed himself, only to force Faramir down to the ground next to him and push himself on top._  
><em>

Fevered hands began searching him, patting him down meticulously. They encountered the hole the arrow on the clearing had left and the cut in the side where the knife had penetrated the fabric. Each time the elf seemed to breathe out sharply. And suddenly Faramir understood._  
><em>

"No." He whispered breathlessly. "Not you. You didn't hit me. You killed one of them. You didn't hit me."

Frantic with the need to know the elf didn't hear him. He ripped the fabric and tore it open, trembling fingers probing the shallow wounds underneath._  
><em>

"Layers." Faramir gasped. "Almost didn't reach the—"

He groaned when Curufinwë encountered a deeper wound, but that didn't stop the elf in his self-imposed task. Instead, he seemed to search even more determinedly, finally wrapping his relentless fingers around Faramir's bleeding wrist.

Faramir flinched, earning himself a hiss of disapproval._  
><em>

"Almost closed over." He suggested between clenched teeth. "'tis nothing. Nothing. I'm fi-"_  
><em>

The elf grunted and sniffed, sniffed at his forehead, their noses almost touching. It seemed so ridiculous, so perfectly, innocently silly that Faramir giggled.

"Lichen." He told the obviously displeased elf. "I used glowing lichen. I painted my skin. You heard them call me a ghost. I needed to...somehow..." He began rambling, but thankfully caught himself. "All is well. It's not blood. I-" No that wasn't it.

_By the Valar!_

The elf had to have thought him dead. The bandits had talked about having killed him and what to do with his corpse while searching his bags.

Curufinwë had overheard it all._  
><em>

_He must have thought-_

And if the thought of death affected men the way it did, which effect must it have on a creature meant to be immortal?_  
><em>

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I thought—I didn't mean—Oh, Valar you—I—"

Faramir tried to sit up, but the elf pushed him back down with a perfectly feral growl.

"Stupid." He hissed. "Clever for a wood-elf."

"I am no—" He meant to say, but never finished that line._  
><em>

_Doesn't matter. Not now. Not-_

Faramir bit back a moan when the elf's hands slid underneath his life-saving layers of clothing and the searching fingers brushed against a sensitive nipple.

The elf felt heavy on top of him, hot with fever and fear and lust for life.

It was a primal, burning fear and a voracious hunger for a little more time. Faramir knew it and felt it as well, surging through his own veins with every shaking breath he took. It threatened to overwhelm him. And with both hands he reached for the elf's face, forcing it up and towards him._  
><em>

It was the elf, however, who took the initiative as soon as their breaths mingled, taking Faramir's mouth in a bruising, starved kiss that lacked all tenderness, but burned away every last ounce of resistance any of them might have offered at some point forever._  
><em>

Euphoria rushed through him, the excitement of victory mixing with the anxiety of a possible loss, hatred and fear, pain, pleasure, hope, helplessness, power, the horror of death and the determination to live, a truly intoxicating mixture.

Suddenly desperate for physical contact –any physical contact- Faramir yanked at the elf's tunic, anxious to get it out of the way. It was in the way. It was so much in the way like nothing had ever been in the way ever before.

Even the carefully applied bandages were in the way, but some last functioning part of Faramir's mind prevented him from ripping off those, too.

What his hands needed, was to feel skin: flushed, rough skin over hard muscles, life and heat. _He_ ached for more, not just his hands. Every direct contact with the elf's body sent tiny shock waves of pleasure through his entire being. He had never felt anything comparable.

Hands clawed and scratched, grabbed and pulled between open mouthed kisses._  
><em>

The elf smelled of healthy, green moss and a bitterness that reminded Faramir of the fury of the fight he had just won and the prize paid. There was no room for it now and every room at once.

There were no thoughts, no words, only gasps and unintelligible grunts and an apparent safety in closeness, in forgetting._  
><em>

The elf was darkly beautiful that way, resembling some wild, undescribed thing, only mentioned in forgotten tales of old.

His hair, a mane as black as coal, fell freely over his broad shoulders. Even in his battered and weakened state he had lost nothing of his imposing figure, his frightening strength. Light and shadows played on the scarred skin where his eyes should have been and a thin web of blood splashes covered his face, bright red in contrast to his own, dulled blue.

Sweat already began to smear the colors and Faramir's tongue did the rest. He did not flinch from the taste of it, neither from the idea._  
><em>

Following Curufinwë's example, he reached out blindly, searching, grasping, holding on to whatever they could reach. Soon he was driven by the urgent need to touch all of this magnificent creature above him. Yet, like the elf, he could not bring himself to let go of anything and a violent, clumsy struggle was all they got.

Faramir groaned in frustration. His hands weren't enough, his lips, his mouth, his whole body. Close wasn't close enough._  
><em>

He saw his desperation mirrored in the elf's clear-cut features. For a frightening moment they clung to each other, afraid that they would drown should they let go.

_Please don't...! Please!_

Faramir pressed himself against the elf's unyielding body, hoping for contact, for friction, for relief, for more- anything!

In response the elf's groin rubbed against his and he nearly screamed out at the sensation.

Curufinwë chuckled, sharp teeth biting down on Faramir's neck, barely hard enough to leave a mark._  
><em>

With trembling fingers Faramir started fumbling around with the bindings of their breeches. To no avail. Without thinking twice he grabbed one of the arrows just in reach and cut the bindings open._  
><em>

Before he could do anything else, the elf had already wrapped his fingers around his aching member and the last remaining shards of Faramir's clear mind shattered, leaving only instinct._  
><em>

Whether he moaned or cried or begged, he no longer knew. His hands reached for anything they could find and his mouth took anything it was offered.

Feeling delirious he vaguely registered that the elf had finally taken them both in hand, pressing their lengths against each other and stroking them hard and fast. It almost hurt. It surely hurt. It had to. But Faramir couldn't have cared less.

In this instant pain and pleasure were the same: Searing, blinding, impossibly bright, as his body shook and he cried out his release, beyond good and evil.

There was no love in what they did on the forest floor, no tenderness, not even care. It was comfort, in a way, and yet it wasn't.

Come morning only ashes would remain.


	10. Chapter 10

_**I apologize for the late update, please don't be angry with me!**_  
><em><strong>Since one of you brought up Nerdanel, I decided to offer the memory of her a little screen-time. Thanks a lot!<strong>_

_**Now: Enjoy!**_

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><p>There had been a time when his wife would have been mad.<p>

Oddly enough, this was among the first things that came to Curufinwë's mind when he awoke from what had only been moments of exhausted dozing, but felt like a whole night of restless sleep.

He no longer was bound to anyone, but he had been for what felt like most of his life.

Refusing to move and face the consequences of their little interlude just yet, when his savior already scrambled to his feet, he remained lying where he was, deliberately losing himself in thought.

She had been a calm and gentle creature, his wife, the polar opposite to his temper. At the same time she had been able to swear like a soldier when provoked and that one time when she had threatened to 'crack his nuts' and make him 'eat them very slowly' shouldn't he get out of her sight as fast as he could, he hadn't doubted it for an instant.

_Nerdanel._

Yes, on the surface she had been perfectly calm, eloquent and noble, but underneath had burned a fire to outmatch his own and he had always admired her for controlling it so well.

Over the centuries she had been a great companion and a wonderful mother. What she had, thankfully, never been was a damsel that would fade from grief because her mate had betrayed her with another. Rather would she have had his hide. And with pleasure she would have skinned and tanned it herself, too. Though, the art in which she had truly excelled had been sculpturing._  
><em>

_That little beast... she would laugh at me if she knew I touched a wood-elf._

The elf grimaced. He had let himself go, he could see that now. He had let his guard down and allowed himself to be swept away by Faramir's passion and even more so: his animalistic desperation, likely an inherent trait to his people. What else could possibly have driven him to seek this kind of comfort in the arms of a near stranger?

Curufinwë could have asked himself the same question, but preferred to refrain from doing so. He knew he would not like the answer.

_Death._

So imminent, so threatening. It made him shudder and caused him to wince immediately afterwards. His body did feel considerably more alive after what they had done, but also hurt considerably worse.

_Alive._

Curufinwë had known death before this evening.

He had taken many lives, directly or by ordering it. As a commander he had led his men into battle. They had killed. They had died. As had their enemies. He himself had murdered many, his own kin, even his own son.

The scent of blood, now slowly being washed away by a shower of cleansing summer rain, he knew it well. And yet, curiously enough, he had never considered his own death. Not until he had died.

He clenched his teeth and concentrated on his breathing, the sound of the rain, Faramir's movements somewhere close.

If anything, he did not want to remember this particular event in the middle of his two lives.

Briefly he wondered whether his wife had somehow been informed of his death and if she had any longer cared.

_Probably not._

It had been different once.

She hadn't known whom he had lain with back then. It had been enough that there had been _someone_ else to make her furious. Then she had found out that it had been a male and her carefully kept composure had snapped.

"I can never be enough for you!" She had cried. And she had been right, though, for different reasons.

Clay had been thrown at him, scrapers, palette knives, paint pots and brushes. Had she not been so angry, she would later have noticed the colored stains on an elf she knew, where Curufinwë had touched his lover after being thrown out of his own house and finding momentary refuge with him.

_We really were careless._

The reason for him seeking pleasure elsewhere had not been that he hadn't loved his wife, quite the contrary. He had adored her. He had loved her and he had been, contrary to what she had believed, very satisfied with what her body had had to offer, too.

It should have been perfect.

They had been young and beautiful. She had been his princess and he had known he would be king. Their marriage had been arranged, but much to their convenience. Their own choice of mate would not have been any different.

They had been so close to being soul-mates, too.

Yet, his fëa had longed for something else. Something he still couldn't quite name. He had searched for it, the way he searched best: in practice, not theory.

In the end their bond had not been strong enough. She had not been able to keep him and he had not been able to stay for her sake. Their parting had been honest, but brutal and hurtful. He had taken their sons. And she would not take him back.

Curufinwë didn't even think that he wanted her to.

He knew without a doubt that should he meet her again and should they spend some time together, he could love her again. As things stood, however, the memory of her felt like that of someone he had known once, but would recognize no longer. She seemed so distant, a stranger to him now. She would have changed and so had he. Yet, he mourned the fact that they had parted as they had and that it had not been enough.

_So close._ Curufinwë mused.

Elves did search for their fëa's mates and, while pleasure was often given and received freely, sometimes outside that sacred bond, many did bond for life, for eternity. That he, of all elves, should not be able to find such a mate vexed him immensely.

Elven love was complex and nothing he would have had much knowledge about or enjoyed to discuss. Whenever the subject came up, he wondered if not maybe it would be easier to be some lower animal, some kind of wolf or human. They didn't have to worry about such complicated and, frankly, ultimately useless things. All they had to do was live for the moment and worry about food or a predator every now and then. Their lives were short and simple. They didn't have to plan ahead for an eternity and they were so blissfully unaware of the more difficult questions of life.

He would prefer a wolf, though, he mused. Humans were frail, clumsy, sickly, rather ugly, mostly useless and more of a disturbance anywhere they went than anything else. It wasn't that he hadn't encountered beasts far worse than humans, it was their weakness that caused him disgust. How such creatures managed to survive at all, he did not understand.

Unbidden the image of the round-eared youth from his dream returned to him. He had been a creation of his overactive mind. A stunning elf with the flaw of round, human ears to mock his preferences. At least he had not dreamt of an actual human. He would not have been able to use his savior's name for who knew how long without imagining him to be one.

_Faramir._

He had to have caught the name the first time his savior had introduced himself, just before that dream. It was surely strange how dreams worked at times and one did well not to underestimate the trickery of the Valar of dreams. This was his realm and even Curufinwë treaded carefully there.

"Damn it! I can't seem to get this cleaned off..." He heard Faramir curse and, despite himself, he smiled.

Somehow he had the distinct feeling that at least one person in this new life cared whether he lived or died, without or precisely because he was oblivious to what kind of elf Curufinwë really was.

Why else would he have returned and taken on several armed opponents even after learning his name?

"...I should have known better..." His savior grumbled. "... I got this all over myself before..."

Curufinwë heard a quiet chuckle and realized it came from him.

"...Valar, I don't remember it being this sticky..."

And then the elf snorted.

"...when I was five."

And finally he laughed, even though it hurt in all the wrong places. It really did. His healing body did not take well to certain movements. However he had managed to climb on top of Faramir, right there and then he no longer understood. The pain didn't serve to darken his suddenly bright mood, though. Their quick encounter had been surprisingly satisfactory.

_Wood-elf magic. _It caused him all kinds of conflicting feelings.

Apparently it did not serve to heighten their senses, for only now did Faramir realize that he had been listening and actually understood his muddled not-quite-Sindarin. "What?"

"We are..." Curufinwë said slowly. "Not thinking the same."

He could almost hear the frown forming on his savior's forehead, before he laughed.

"Lichen." He declared in mock offense and something wet would have hit Curufinwë's face, had he not ducked in time. "Glowing lichen."

The elf felt his savior crouch down next to him, his presence warm and light, so very different from his previous grimness or even his sudden, predatory lust.

"We have to clean you, too." Faramir said. "For the reasons _you_ thought of." There was a smile in his voice, so palpable and real, even without eyes to see it the elf had no doubt it was there. "Will you allow me to wash you? I think some of your wounds may have reopened as well..." Now, this Curufinwë didn't like. The smile was gone, guilt overshadowed it, remorse, shame. Apparently the woodland sprite had not enjoyed their quick encounter after all.

"If you must." He said, feeling vaguely offended.

Faramir said nothing in return. It seemed as though, ultimately, he lacked the smoldering fire underneath that Curufinwë had believed to feel attracted to.

His hands, however, went to task quite pleasantly. Callous they were, Curufinwë could tell, but Faramir washed him carefully where it would have hurt the most and at the same time was not too shy to touch and use a little more force where it was needed. It became evident to Curufinwë that his savior knew what he did. He had to have cared for wounded before. And now that the elf was more aware of his new body, he could actually appreciate it.

_At least he is good for something._

"I had planned to leave for Minas Tirith tonight, but considering what... happened... I now believe it wiser to wait for sunrise."_  
><em>

_Minas Tirith...Yes..._

"Why Minas Tirith?" Was that his home? It seemed so unfitting. The name alone didn't sound right.

"It has the best healers." Faramir replied, but after a short pause he admitted: "An envoy from Khand arrived unexpectedly and solicited my presence as a prerequisite for any negotiations. The Steward—"

"Khand?" Curufinwë knew, he had to be careful which and how many questions he asked. His weakened constitution proved rather useful for once.

Just asking for this 'Khand' could mean anything and did not necessary hint at his lack of geographical and general knowledge concerning this age. It seemed strange enough that his savior had not yet asked what had happened to him or where he came from. Maybe he could feign amnesia later. That would spare him having to invent some elaborate explanation to satisfy Faramir's curiosity – if at all he was curious.

_Probably not. Or he would have asked already._

Faramir took his time before he answered. What he thought, Curufinwë could not tell. Finally he sighed.

"We have been at war with the Variags, the men of Khand, ever since I remember..." He said thoughtfully. "Yet... these are strange times. With the shadow in the East ever threatening... enemies might become allies after all. The people of Khand are suffering, too."

_Shadow in the East..._ Curufinwë snorted. As much as he loved knowledge, as much he hated not to know. And this, without a doubt, had to be something he should know. He had heard people call a threat 'shadow' before, he vaguely recalled. It had led to his death.

"The Steward?" He took up instead. It seemed unlikely for the small, tightly knit wood-elf clans to appoint something like a steward. From what he had learned from placing snippets of information about what happened on Arda he had caught here and there in the Halls of Waiting together and filling in the gaps on his own, they tended to be nomadic and matriarchal.

Maybe the word 'steward' meant that in this Minas Tirith he would finally meet someone of his kin?

_Even Sindarin elves would be a step up._ He mused.

"The Steward expects me." Faramir said. Was he a Silvan envoy then? An advisor or a friend to that city-dwelling steward? Maybe he had misjudged him and Faramir was actually of mixed blood? "That aside-"

"That aside?"

"Nothing." The elf could hear Faramir shake his head and move to stand. "You should try to find some sleep. You are still weak and our journey will be long."

Normally Curufinwë would have taken offense at that, but his savior was right and he was not in the mood for a discussion. Yet,...

"Stay." He heard himself say.

"I have to finish cleaning myself." Faramir replied with a shrug. "In the wild glowing is only advantageous if you happen to be a lichen."

Curufinwë smirked, nodded and listed to him rummaging around. The quiet noises had a surprisingly calming effect on him and for a little while, barely until the early moments of dawn, he dozed off once more. Morning would come soon enough.


	11. Chapter 11

It was deep in the night. The witching hour, judging by the moon's position. Autumn, by the dead leaves lazily flapping on the ground.

The fire that always haunted his dreams of late was already there. Though, only inside a metal brazier, emitting clouds of golden sparks that drifted in the air like the first flakes of snow.

Curufinwë knew with certainty that he had never been to this place before. This time there was no memory he lacked. This majestic city, white and grey even in the depth of night, was completely unknown to him.

He had the distinct feeling that someone meddled with what he saw in his sleep, but could not definitively blame the Valar themselves._  
><em>

_Something else might be at work here._

A few steps away from him, with his back turned towards the elf stood someone, the hood of his velvet cloak pulled deep into his face. The silver embroidered hems flashed in the moonlight whenever he moved ever so slightly. Otherwise he was all shadows, there on the terrace that overlooked the white city, eyes trained on a silver lining on the horizon that wasn't yet there.

Curufinwë was about to approach the stranger, when someone else did. The fur-trimmed cloak around his shoulders seemed a little worn and his dark hair oddly unkempt in comparison to the formal robes he was wearing. Curufinwë did not recognize the design and neither the emblem of a tree, so prominent on the stranger's breast. The way he moved seemed vaguely familiar, but many warriors moved that way.

"Faramir!" The stranger called out and Curufinwë's eyes narrowed.

Yet again that name had weaseled its way into his dreams. It made him hope he wouldn't encounter an elf with dragon horns or a snake's tongue this time and he felt almost relieved that this Faramir didn't turn around. Instead he kept on staring ahead.

Now, if Curufinwë remembered correctly, he hadn't even flinched when addressed so roughly. So he must have expected the stranger, or at least knew him well.

"Faramir!" The other called out again, a little less angrily, a little less loudly this time. "What have you done?"

"You make it sound like a crime." Faramir said softly and now that he heard his voice, Curufinwë thought that it did sound similar to that of his savior.

"Because it is! Faramir! Have you lost your mind?!" The stranger reached out for the hooded figure as though he wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him, but his hands halted mid-air and he let them fall to his side again. "Faramir." He repeated dejectedly when the other did not react at all.

"I killed a traitor. A spy. An enemy. A trained assassin whose only real reason in coming to this city was to murder the Steward. Is that not what father told you? What he told everyone?"

"I am no fool." The stranger said. "I know you. I've always known you. It was you who brought him here and he was under your protection. He was your responsibility."

"And so I killed him." Faramir retorted in a toneless voice. "Gondor is my responsibility, too, and she is a jealous and selfish mistress, like you always say. She always comes first."

"No, Faramir, no."

"No?" Faramir almost turned around and for a brief instant Curufinwë feared he had noticed him, but then he only shook his head.

"You would have made sure he was put on trial. You would not have killed him in cold blood. That is not our way. He had not yet done anything. There was none of our blood on his hands."

"Apparently he attacked me." Faramir provided.

"Well." The other asked. "Did he?"

The logs in the brazier cracked, spitting out a swarm of dancing sparks.

"Yes and no." Faramir finally replied. "I knew."

"What? Why he was really here or that he would attack you?" The other inquired, gradually inching ever closer, until he stood right behind him.

"Both." Faramir said, ever so softly.

"Since when?"

"The beginning, I suppose, or since very early on anyway."

"And you did not warn father? Me?"

"There was no need to." Faramir leaned back against the other's chest in a gesture of trust. Apparently reflexively two strong arms wrapped around him. "We struck a deal, he and I. He was sent as a spy, that is correct, and he was never meant to agree to any conditions we proposed. There was never meant to be a treaty. And yet..."

"And yet?"

"We made our own. I would teach him our ways and help him understand our people and if I could convince him that they were good, worthy and strong allies, he would talk to those he knew would listen in secret, behind the back of his commander. He would try to change their perception of us and make them more well-disposed towards us. Maybe this way they would have been inclined to approach us in the near future." He shook off the protecting arms and stepped closer to the edge of the terrace. "A chance. It would have been more than we would have gotten otherwise. More than..." He shrugged. "Nothing."

"And you provided him with information? You trusted him? Faramir, you of all people should—"

"I told him nothing they could have used against us!" Faramir cried out so angrily that even Curufinwë flinched. "Yes, I trusted him! I trusted him with my life, for he saved it. And with my thoughts and my mind and my soul and my body! Is that not enough?!"

"He lied." Was all the other could say.

"Not to me."

"Then why did you kill him?!"

Faramir pulled his cloak around himself. "He was already dead."

"Already... you did not?"

"I did." Faramir clarified. "But his time was already over." He breathed out slowly. "Someone had poisoned his mulled wine- He liked it. It...the spices reminded him of home- They were strong, he... would not have noticed...the taste... if it was off." He turned to face the stranger, but away from Curufinwë. "He asked me to kill him. And allow him to die a more honorable death than this... seizures and agonizing pain, vomiting and loss of control over his bladder, loss of his mind, a drooling, incontinent, disgusting, dying fool..." As passionate and angry his voice had been, it turned impassive when he added: "He was proud. He died a warrior. I killed him. He fought well."

"You loved him." It wasn't a question.

"No." Was the reply anyway. "I respected him and I enjoyed his company."

"But you took him to your bed."

"Yes."

"Aye, little brother. You know that this is not done."

"It is done."

"Faramir, you know what I mean. If anyone had learned of this. If—"

"It is fine to embrace another soldier, didn't you tell me? Didn't father? Doesn't everyone agree?"

"That is different!"

"Different?!" Faramir cried.

"Yes. It is not the same. It is not...weak or unnatural."

"Weak?! Unnatural?!"

"After battle one naturally seeks comfort and relief from anger and frustration and stress and all of that, the fury of battle. If he would lie with a woman at that point—"

"I know plenty of women who can handle that, Boromir. And you do as well."

"I—Why do I have to defend myself?! You are the one who has—"

"Why do _I _have to defend myself in front of _you_, brother?" Faramir interrupted him. "You, who knows me so well?"

Silence reigned, even the fire seemed to have died down momentarily. Curufinwë unclenched the fists he had not noticed making.

"The sunrise will be beautiful today, you can already tell." Faramir said suddenly.

"There is no sun, the horizon is dark. There is nothing to see and won't be for a long while yet." Boromir replied. "Come with me. Come inside, little one."

"I cannot. Not yet."

He finally turned into the elf's direction and what struck Curufinwë more than anything else, were his eyes: so sad and ancient and yet so defiant and burning with a hidden flame.

He would remember those eyes even in his waking state.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thank you again for your reviews, with special thanks to ****SparkyTAS who pointed out that "matriarchal" might not be the right word for Silvan society, considering Oropher and Thranduil. However, since Curufinw****ë died before there even were wood-elves his only source of information about them was what he caught in the Halls of Waiting- or just made up himself to fill the gaps. He can be rather ignorant and prejudiced, too, as you might have noticed.  
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**Anyway, enjoy this chapter and maybe let me know if you do!**

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><p>He knew it was still dark by the silence all around. The white hour, shortly before the sun rose. When all was white and grey and nothing made a sound and nothing moved, not even the wind.<p>

And then there was a sound, very faint. The soft, regular breathing of someone and the beat of a strong heart. Faramir was awake, the elf could tell, and shifted ever so slightly, but seemed to hold back from moving too much for some reason._  
><em>

_He cannot be in too much pain. I checked for more serious wounds..._

It had happened instinctively. The elf was convinced that he had not truly worried about his savior. He hardly knew him, after all, and considering Faramir was a wood-elf, Curufinwë had the distinct feeling that he might be safer alone or in company of someone else. The Silvan were of Telerin origin, after all, and especially, but not solely, after the Kinslaying at Alqualondë the possibility of them holding a certain grudge against him in particular was rather high. Now, he did not know any wood-elves personally, but he had known the Teleri and the rest didn't need much imagination._  
><em>

_I was lucky of them all it was the one least knowledgeable in lore and most naive and desperate to help that found me, then._

"You made no fire."

Curufinwë said in a low voice as to not startle his savior.

"No." Came the whispered reply. "It seemed to unsettle you the last time, even in your sleep. There really is no need for one. You may be wounded, but the cold should not affect you."

"No." _I'm no sickly human, after all._ "It does not." _But that does not mean I do not appreciate the warmth, the idea of light, the scent of herbs smoldering on the embers, the crackling of dry wood, or a hot meal._

"And I am used to being outside, drenched, somewhat battered and without a campfire." Faramir added.

"You expected them to return?" There had to be a slightly more sensible reason to why his savior had not started a fire. The fact that it disturbed the peace of a dozing stranger he had dragged up in the woods really didn't sound that valid to the elf.

"No. Not if they truly thought they were facing a unit of the Ithilien Company, however small." Faramir sighed and Curufinwë had the distinct feeling he was staring at his hands while he spoke: "Or if they aren't out of their senses. Such slaughters are not meant to happen here. Closer to the border where waring nations collide, yes, but here... Small skirmishes, robberies, drunken brawls... But not so much needlessly spilled blood." He paused, then added: "This horror will haunt them. I do not think they will return, not even for revenge or the bodies of their fallen comrades. I will burn them later, if you do not mind, before we leave. It is the least they would have done for me."

"Who were they?"

They could not possibly have been elves. Curufinwë had not seen them, but then he hadn't needed to. The way they moved, talked, behaved and even smelled had told him more than enough.

On the other hand, they could have been of some renegade, even more bestialized wood-elf clan. Surely they existed. That would explain Faramir's remorse. For him, other than Curufinwë, kinslaying, even in defense, would not be something to take lightly.

Most elves would rather die than lay hand on one of their kin. Hypocritical, if one considered what and whom else they were prepared to kill without so much as batting an eye.

_Yet, you called it morally superior and condemned me for my actions._ That he remembered. If only he could remember with the same exactitude what he had fought for and what he had protected with such fervor. That there had to have been something, was the only thing the Valar had left him. A blank space. Yet, one detail stood out rather clearly. _What if I told you that I acted in defense, too, at the _blessed_ shores of __Alqualondë? Would you believe it?_

"Who were they?" Faramir stood and sat down closer to him. He took his time to reply. "If you were to ask a child of one of the families that have been ambushed on this road or lost whatever they had in one of the small villages nearby, it would say: bad men. But if you were to ask a different child, one of their own, then the answer would be different. I will refer to them by what they were to us, for I hardly know them otherwise: They were bandits. And I wished it were different."

_Men. As I suspected._

Then why did having killed them bother his savior that much?

"We are at war. These are hard times and some have to break the law in order to survive." Faramir continued. "Some lose themselves. They forget their ways." And more quietly he added: "I think... I already have done that, too."_  
><em>

_They were only men and thieves at that. It should not trouble you so. _Curufinwë thought.

Having created and owned various precious items that had more often than not caught the attention and the envy of many, he had never liked thieves. He had no qualms to hunt them down and punish them on the spot.

Faramir, however, was a wood-elf, a creature very much in tune with nature. They would not hurt an animal without good reason, even less enjoy killing it. That necessarily included humans, didn't it?

_He is still an elf and not a forest spirit.  
><em>

Though, the idea suddenly seemed oddly tempting to Curufinwë, who couldn't help but imagine such a fey creature crouched down right next to him.

In his imagination the wood-elf would naturally be scarcely clad, with stains of dully glowing silver paste and blue clay and some scattered splatters of blood still visible on his skin. Wild and untamed. A savage, yes. Though, with ancient eyes and tousled hair, a few leaves tangled in it.

Curufinwë caught himself just in time, before reaching out and trying to ascertain if it was true.

_I would like to kiss him._

The notion confused the elf and he was quick to attribute it to the fact that they had just touched each other rather intimately and that there was no one else near. He was depended on his savior, so he could as well enjoy it._  
><em>

_He has a beard, too._

A little detail that had not escaped Curufinwë and that fascinated him immensely.

"How old are you, Faramir?" He asked, chasing the creeping silence off.

"Terribly old, at times." His savior replied.

And Curufinwë understood what that meant. He had known elves with beards before. They usually were very old or, at least, especially gifted. Many of those that were younger carried the burden of a wisdom beyond their years. All the more it frustrated him that humans had to do nothing in order to deserve wearing one.

For elves it was a sign of great wisdom and internal strength. For Curufinwë in particular it was a fond memory, characterized by admiration at first and mutual understanding between lovers of the same craft later. Though, that had been in his early youth, when he had first met Nerdanel on one of her occasional strolls and later her father.

Curufinwë had immediately felt drawn towards the older elf's power and his great stock of knowledge. Mahtan, on the other hand, had soon agreed to share. He had believed to have found another like-mind, aside his crafty daughter.

Curufinwë owed Mahtan almost everything and even though he believed the master smith was probably no longer as proud of him as he had been in the beginning, he still did hold him in the highest regards. The father of his wife had taught him much and helped him build a solid basis for his later endeavors. He had also entrusted him with his daughter, so very much like him in many ways.

Mahtan had had a beard. Softer than that of Faramir, fuller. Though, the fact that Faramir's beard stubble had prickled against his face when he had kissed him... Oh, he could get used to that. And, more importantly, it did not remind him too much of his late father-in-law. He didn't really want to imagine kissing him._  
><em>

_Faramir on the other hand..._

Curufinwë grinned.

"What is it?" His savior asked in response.

The elf imagined him cocking his head, frowning slightly.

He couldn't help himself and so he reached out, grabbed the back of Faramir's neck and pulled him into a kiss. He had never been one to ponder possible consequences overly much and this time he was rewarded for it.

His savior's lips were a little cold and chapped at beginning, but turned warm and supple when he nibbled on them and licked them soothingly afterwards. Beard stubble prickled against his chin and heightened all of his senses, allowing him to enjoy the lingering touches of their slow kiss to the fullest.

As soon as he pressed for a little more, Faramir's mouth yielded quickly, hot and inviting and equipped with a truly wickedly talented tongue, wrapping lazily around his own. The sensation caused him a shiver of pleasure and made him forget the fine stings of pain any movement, no matter how tiny, still caused him.

It was a kiss very different from their first, slower, more sensual. Both took their time exploring, tasting, getting used to each other. Good. It was good. Neutral, somehow, and loaded with no more emotions than necessary, but good.

Until Curufinwë made a mistake he would regret instantly.


	13. Chapter 13

It was a tiny gesture. A tiny, trivial gesture.

Unthinkingly at first, Curufinwë slid his hands upwards and entangled them in Faramir's hair. He didn't find any leaves, but was surprised at how soft it felt between his fingers, despite being, indeed, slightly unkempt.

When he realized that he had inspected his savior's hair for leaves after all, the elf smiled into their kiss, causing Faramir to automatically return it and even chuckle quietly, but without breaking the contact.

Fully aware of it this time, Curufinwë grabbed his savior's hair more tightly and pulled him even closer.

The elf marveled at the sudden surge of happiness that flooded through him, as he leaned his forehead against Faramir's between butterfly kisses and caressed the sensitive side of his ears with his thumbs. It was a strange, peaceful happiness of which he had felt small wafts ever since Faramir had found him in the forest. It had been faint before and confusing, but now it became solid, real and undoubtedly clear: This could only be the healing magic of the wood-elves, pulsing through the veins of one who was ancient and powerful among them._  
><em>

_Maybe he could even-_

Curufinwë froze. The sudden realization that his savior's ears had the wrong shape made his blood run cold.

_No. No this can't be! This-_

"You are human." He had wanted to hiss venomously, but what left his mouth was nothing but a choked whisper.

_A human._ Not even a wood-elf. His savior was a human. And he hadn't noticed. He hadn't known. How could he not have known? How could he not have noticed... _anything_?!

_A human._ That meant there would be no healers, awaiting him in this far away Minas Tirith. There would only be more dirty, useless humans. There would be no help, no hope. His eye-sight and his legs were forever lost. He would be a cripple, as ugly and frail as those cursed creatures.

Worse, even if those humans honestly wanted and would try to help him, he could expect them to know so little of the healing arts, of medicine, of basic hygiene, they would only make things worse, much worse. Their help, for whatever reasons, would endanger his newly won life in the same manner their rejection or even open hostility and hatred would. Even their best intentions would only serve to kill him – if they even had those intentions.

Who knew what awaited him in Minas Tirith?

He had expected a city, safe and clean and strongly built, protected by high walls and brave soldiers, inhabited by skilled craftsmen and learned healers, as well as merchants and bards that could teach him what he didn't know about this new age and nobles that would help him contact the right people. Maybe, in the back of his mind, he had almost dared to hope this Steward Faramir had mentioned would turn out to be his own, only awaiting his return.

All of the possibilities he had seen, all of his best laid plans, everything shattered. There was nothing left. He could no longer be sure of anything.

Faramir had lied to him already, who knew where he was taking him and why? And the worst part of it all was that there was virtually nothing he could do against it. He could not stop that human from doing whatever he wanted. He was no match to _anyone_ at the moment, depended, disgustingly weak, at the mercy of whoever cared – at the mercy of a dishonorable human. He couldn't even _walk_, for the Valar's sake!

_How? How could this happen? How could the Valar place me in his path? How could one of the Sickly of all creatures find me?  
><em>

It took a moment until realization hit: Faramir's humans were at war with other humans. Not once had he mentioned elves. Not one elf had crossed their path. Not a sign of civilization. _Anywhere_.

Could it be? Where were they?_  
><em>

_Where are my people? Where are the others?_

Where were the great kingdoms he had dreamt of in the constant state of waking dreams in the Halls of Waiting? Where were the white towers, tall and strong? The flourishing cities? The soldiers in bejeweled armor, with red-plumed helms and weapons of steal, even truer than those he had forged back in his days? Where were his people? Where the realm he had been prepared to rule?_  
><em>

_Gone...they are gone...all gone..._

They had to be.

How else could there be so many humans and not a trace of his own people?

What had happened in this age, this Valar forsaken place?!

_You know. Human. You have to know. You knew all along. What have you done?! What have you done to them? What have you done to _my people_?! What have you done to _me_?!_

Sensing the elf's sudden hostility, Faramir withdrew from him. Though, not far.

"I've been accused of many things, but being human has never been among them." He said levelly, only fueling the anger that flared up inside Curufinwë.

_You betrayed me!_

The elf gasped, pushing himself away from the tree he had been leaning against in his sleep, only to end up on his hands and knees when he tried to get to his feet.

_You tricked me! You _lied _to me!_

"You lied to me! You led me to believe that you- How old are you? One hundred and five? Two hundred?" He asked, pressing one hand to his chest to calm himself.

"Thirty. But that means more to most humans than to me. Mostly because of my father's blood, I suppose. It's different for us. But that wasn't the real question, was it?"

_Thirty._

Curufinwë felt sick. Bile rose in his throat and he swallowed convulsively.

_I allowed him to kiss me. To touch me. We..._

Through the haze of his thoughts he heard Faramir rising to stand, followed by his voice. His calm, gentle, even, so damn composed voice.

"I apologize if I gave you the impression that—"

"Leave! Leave me! _Leave me alone_!" The elf screamed, suddenly unsure what he would do to this creature if it stayed close now.

"As you wish." Faramir replied. "I will prepare our food. We should eat before I burn the corpses and we leave."_  
><em>

_As if I would eat any of that muck._

Taking slow, deliberate steps Faramir walked away from him and it took an eternity until he was finally gone.

Curufinwë tried to unclench his fingers from where they had clawed themselves into the ground. To no avail. They only trembled. His whole body trembled. He clenched his teeth to not cry out. Instead he ripped a whole portion of grass and earth out of the ground and threw it back again with all the force his broken body could muster. He didn't care for the pain that caused him. Right there and then he didn't feel it anyway. His anger, momentarily, overrode everything else.

_Fool! Disgusting, worthless fool!_

He did scream, despite everything. Though, he only realized he had done so moments later, when the silence returned so thick and heavy, it nearly choked him.

_I didn't notice. Why didn't I notice? I should have. I should have prevented this from ever happening. I should have done something._ _Anything!_

His crowded thoughts offered no respite.

_You—You bastard! You-I should have your throat slit for this! I am an elf! I am a king! And you? What are you? Vile, little, lying piece of scum! How dare you touch me?!_ And then it dawned on him. _You tried to—You used me! You wanted to use me! You lured me into this! You used my weakness against me! How? How did you do it? How did you—such a lowlife like you—how did _you_ bewitch _me_? Me?!_ He had no doubts as to why this human had tried to win his trust._ You... you want my secrets, don't you? My knowledge, my talent! _Humans were undeveloped, stupid and clumsy creatures. Of course they would steal from elves! How else could they possibly have survived that long?

Faramir had even stolen his language, his beautiful Quenya. He had misused it for his disgusting purpose, tainted it. And some of the Sindarin, too.

Even his name! His damn name was a mockery of everything good and beautiful, designed to taunt him.

How much did the Valar have to do with this, he wondered briefly. Did they mean to punish him, to test him? Was it a provocation, a dare, a declaration of war? He would find out. It didn't matter right now.

_You thought you could fool me. You thought I wouldn't notice?! _How had he done it? How had a human managed to enchant an elf that wasn't easily seduced even by the most powerful beings to walk among the living? It could not only have been his weakened state that had made it possible for Faramir to get so close to him. Did humans work their own, sinister magic?

_He has me right where he wanted me._

There was no way he could escape in this lamentable state his body was in. He needed the human for now, his help, his care. He needed to get better first, before he could attempt anything else. He needed to heal and he needed more information. Both he would get, he was certain. While his body was weak, his mind worked better than ever before. He would not allow a lowly human to outwit him._  
><em>

_I have slain mightier foes than you, little wench._

His one, great advantage was that the human didn't yet know he had been found out. That Curufinwë knew his true race now, yes, but not that he had seen right through his scheme.

The elf knew he would have to pretend until he would be well enough to take care of this properly. And taking care of it properly he would.

Until then the human would feel his wrath, silent and dangerous, a smoldering fire that would suffocate him unnoticed until it would be too late.

_You will learn nothing from me. You will get nothing. I will give you nothing. You aren't the first to try and steal from me. You aren't the first to try and seduce me. All your pretty attempts. They will serve you nothing. I promise you. Nothing. I will take everything from you, everything you have, everything you love. And I will give nothing in return. You do not deserve it._

* * *

><p>Faramir had walked away from the elf slowly.<p>

_Never run._ Someone had told him once, making him realize how stupid his behavior was. Curufinwë, with both his legs broken, couldn't follow him.

_I didn't mean to..._

Faramir knew how to deal with rejection and with anger directed at him, even with the fact that sometimes he did not understand fully why someone acted the way they did. No longer a child he had learnt to leave it be and get over it quickly. That was how survival worked on its most basic level.

_He must be exhausted and hungry after who knows how many days without food._

Granted, Curufinwë was an elf and, for all Faramir knew, he was able to endure for much longer without food or even drink than any human, but even to elves there had to be a limit. He had to eat and they would not stop for a while once they set out.

Maybe something substantial would make him feel better, too. Not less betrayed, of course, just, maybe, a little better altogether.

After the bandits' thorough search there wasn't much left of their provisions and Faramir opted for gathering what he could find in their immediate surroundings instead. Even a quick hunt was out of question.

_They sense your distress, your anger and they use your confusion. You won't be able to focus now and no animal will come near you, stinking of hostility._ He remembered Damrod's advice. They didn't have enough time left, anyway.

All the more it delighted him to find some sweet berries and mealy roots. Those would serve to prepare a small dish he had loved as a child. Cook had made it in secret for him whenever he had been sad or too ill to eat anything else. It was easy to swallow, sweet and warm and nutritious. The elf would be able to eat it without too much pain and it would strengthen him. Maybe it would help to lift his spirits a little. It had always done wonders to him as child, still did, occasionally.

With that in mind Faramir didn't much care for the thorns that inevitably ripped his skin as he worked to collect the berries. Their domesticated kin were much easier to come by and he was glad that poor cook had never had to go through this to make a sad, little boy smile again. Though, he knew without a doubt that she would have.

He cleaned his hands and arms first, so that none of the earth and blood would spoil the food and was surprised to find a thorn-scratch on his cheek, too. Had that happened in the citadel gardens, Boromir would always have known without a doubt when he had been sneaking down to steal berries without bringing him any.

Faramir smiled and took his time to prepare the food. He made a small fire, far enough away from their camp to not disturb the elf.

Later he would have to make a much bigger fire.

Faramir closed his eyes and breathed in and out deeply.

He would search the bodies first and put their belongings aside to where their companions, should they return, could find them. Something personal of each one of them he would keep. Maybe it would allow him at some point to locate their familiars and return something to them. Maybe it would serve as a reminder for himself. It was a strange habit he had developed very early on during his time with the Ithilien rangers. Since his first kill, to be exact.

_Mablung had found him then, crouching next to the Easterling he had shot, knife in hand._

_"What do you think you are doing?!" He had barked. "Collecting trophies for your high-born friends at home? Mutilating a corpse? Desecrate the dead? Is that what they teach you young nobles in Minas Tirith? Yes?!"_

_Young Faramir had not dared to turn around. He had been crying, too, and was afraid the other would see. Slowly he had gotten up and remained standing, shoulders hunched, with his back to the older ranger._

_"We have no use for the like of you in our rows!" Mablung had growled at him. "Go pack. Return to your city and your privileges where you belong, boy. You disgust me. Everyone else will agree once I tell them. And I will do so now. Come."_

_"I didn't." Faramir had finally managed to whisper. "The pattern... on his clothes... the pattern is very distinct. It seems to be different for each one of them. I thought... if I cut off a piece I could find his people, his family and—"_

_For a few moments Mablung had been absolutely dumb struck._

_"You meant to cut off a piece of his clothing, identify him with that and find his people?" He had repeated and suddenly his harsh tone had become very soft. "And what would you do then? Visit them and apologize?"_

_Faramir had clenched his eyes shut and bitten his lower lip so hard it had started to bleed. Slowly he had nodded._

_"Oh, my." Mablung had said and his big hands had clasped Faramir's small shoulders. "It's your first, isn't it?"_

_Again, Faramir had nodded, fighting so hard for his shaken body to remain still and not betray him by trembling or a sob._

_"Turn around." The older ranger had ordered and at the same time gently forced him to follow that order. He had drawn the boy into his arms and hugged him close and all of Faramir's dams had broken at once. He had broken down completely, sobbing and crying like he had never done before in his life._

_He still remembered Mablung's bear paws stroking his hair and rubbing small, soothing circles on his back. "It will get easier." He had whispered. "It will get easier."_

_Easier._ Faramir mused.

While different in appearance the Easterlings, as well as the Southrons, were men, too. They as well had families and friends, grand dreams and little, stupid wishes. They celebrated and they suffered and they died. They all died and none returned.

And while, by now, he knew men who did, Faramir found no joy in killing. Neither in hunt, nor in battle.

Yet, while he still remembered that they had been persons, each one of them, the faces of the men he had killed had stopped haunting him and his hand no longer trembled when he took their life. He no longer broke down and cried in Mablung's fatherly arms.

He knew at all times what was expected of him. Where his loyalty lay and what his duty was. And whom he defended.

That didn't make it easier, no, but it made it possible to bear.


	14. Chapter 14

_**Greetings, dear readers! (I apologize for not publishing this yesterday, but somehow fanfictionnet didn't want me to. You have probably noticed the server error.) As you could read in the last chapter: It had to be the ears! I do hope this chapter didn't disappoint, since you were all expecting that to happen.**_

_**Soon they will be in Minas Tirith. There will be surprises and dead. ;)**_

_**Now, on we go!**_

* * *

><p>The elf had not paid enough attention and so he didn't notice when the man had returned. Faramir's hand on his shoulder very abruptly brought him back to reality. Instinctively he flinched away from the man's touch.<p>

If the wood-elves were savages there was no word to describe humans and this particular human had already proved that he could not be trusted.

Curufinwë knew the answer: Because he was kind, his voice, his actions. Because his touches were, in a certain way, very pleasant. Yet, poisonous frogs were pretty to look at, too.

"I brought food. It's still warm, but it should not be too hot any longer. You have to eat." Faramir's voice still sounded kind, but there was a new decisiveness about it that unsettled the elf greatly.

_Poison._ The thought came unbidden. What if the man didn't mean to help him heal and instead would poison him? There was much the right ingredient could do: weaken one's body, one's will or mind, or all of it.

Somehow he felt weaker than only moments ago, drained, exhausted and tired. It seemed to him that the Valar were mocking him now, robbing him of his last remaining strength when he needed it most. His stomach hurt and the thought of food all but made his mouth water.

The elf knew he was hungry and he was glad that at least his stomach didn't growl unceremoniously. The human certainly didn't need to know.

"Leave it." He said, but Faramir insisted.

"You have to eat or you won't make it to Minas Tirith. I am no elf and I know little about your kind, but I do know you, too, have to eat in order to heal." He paused. "It is not too bad. Nor poisoned, if that is what you think. Mash, made from a root that grows in this region. It doesn't have much of a taste, I'm afraid, but the texture is rather pleasant and it is easy to swallow. It will sustain you well. I added some wild berries for taste. Maybe you know them. They are rather common and I have yet to meet someone who doesn't like them. Give it a try, Curufinwë."

"No."

"A few spoons aren't too much to ask for, no? You can leave it, if you don't like it... or if it hurts you... But I do think you should—"

"Don't tell me what I should or shouldn't do, human." The elf hissed.

"I know it isn't the best you've had in years, but you should try to eat, at least a little. Not for my sake, for yours. The journey ahead of us is still long and we won't have much opportunity to rest. There aren't many safe places to make camp to find along the great road. Or places where they won't ask many questions if I am accompanied by a wounded stranger." Faramir sighed. "It is an advice, please eat."

"An advice? You are begging." Curufinwë replied.

"And if I am? Don't be unreasonable, my friend."

_Friend. Since when?_ The elf bit his tongue. "I won't eat _that _if I don't see you eat it." He said instead.

"Very well." Faramir agreed and Curufinwë listened attentively if he could hear the human actually eat from whatever he had brewed together. He couldn't be sure, though. How could he?

"Now, will you eat?" Faramir asked after swallowing.

"I didn't _see_ you." The elf replied drily and striking out blindly he almost managed to knock the bowl the human had brought out of his hands.

"Eat." Faramir repeated, sternly this time.

"Make me." Curufinwë dared him.

A long moment of silence told him that he had won this ridiculous argument, until the human sighed and said: "If you insist on behaving like a child, I will treat you like one."

Before the elf really knew what happened, he was pulled against the human's chest and two strong legs wrapped securely around him, immobilizing even his arms in the process. One arm came up around his neck, forcing him to tilt his head back. A hand cupped his chin none too gently and held him in place.

He fully expected his mouth to be forced open for a dirty spoon to be pushed behind his teeth. What he did not see coming, was feeling Faramir's lips against his. He gasped in surprise and the human used this very instant to push a good portion of something sweet from his own into the elf's mouth with his tongue.

Before Curufinwë realized what was happening to him, the human's hands already massaged his throat and made him swallow against his will.

It burned! By the Valar, it burned! It tasted so good on his tongue and his stomach demanded more instantly, but it felt as though it etched away the cave of his mouth and his the whole length of his throat.

Curufinwë coughed helplessly, trying to turn his head away and free his arms at the same time. He managed to free one arm, but only momentarily. It was enough time to ram his elbow into the man's belly.

To his disappointment the human only made a tiny sound of distress and despite his struggling Faramir managed to catch his arm again and hold him still.

The elf panted, from effort and fury alike. He felt the warm gusts of Faramir's breath against his neck and finally the man's low voice against his ear: "Are you going to be reasonable now, or do you prefer to keep on behaving like an unruly child?"

Curufinwë grunted, but his reply came out less strongly than he had hopped: "Leave me be."

Again the human's reaction surprised him: Faramir let him go.

"I will leave the bowl here, near your right hand." He said. "Consider it. When I return we will leave."

And the elf didn't know what to think anymore.

The only thing he knew for certain was that he would not eat anything that damn human offered him. And with the stench of burning flesh and moist wood in the air he wouldn't have been able to keep anything down anyway.

Faramir returned soon after, brining his horse with him. The beast lay down so the human could hoist him on top of it and climb into the saddle behind him. A neat trick for a human raised animal, Curufinwë had to give it that.

The next few days and nights passed by in a haze. The monotonous clanking of the horse's hooves on the neglected pavement, the warm scent of leather and horse, old blanket and even that of the man behind him only added to the elf's growing tiredness. At least the pain wasn't as acute in this semi-conscious state and his future, cloaked in indifference and forgetting, less grim.

There was something, however, that momentarily penetrated the haze: At some point the human had started humming an old song. It was an elvish lay. Curufinwë knew it well. He would have recognized it anywhere. It had been the first song one of his sons had learned. It had been this very song which had sparked his love for music and revealed his brilliant talent.

Curufinwë wanted to hate Faramir, to be angry at him, but he could not find it in him to do so. Not while this song reminded him of his son's proud smile and sparkling eyes.

The longer their journey took, the more he wished to seek refuge in what little remained of his past, but these memories soon proved as clouded as everything else and offered no more respite. All he could do was drift in and out of sleep until they finally made camp once more.

It was a curious place Faramir had picked for them. Strange, soft grass and fragrant plants the elf could not name grew taller there and more dense. One last outburst of nature in all her might between growing numbers of acres and pastures.

The farther they had come, the more humans had crossed their way. Curufinwë had heard them cry out Faramir's name and walk a few steps aside the horse to talk to him in their rough and simple language. They had not paid any attention to the elf, if he hadn't missed it.

At least it had stopped raining and the ground was dry. Faramir had led them deep into the wavy plants and flattened a good part of them to create a nest they would spend the night in.

It was surprisingly comfortable.

The elf heard the distinct sound of water nearby, a brook, perhaps, nothing more. He felt the touch of the evening mist rising from there, too, but heard no animals.

The night was dark when it fell. Curufinwë sensed no starlight on his skin, no moonglow.

He was vaguely aware that Faramir had to be near, but couldn't be sure. His concentration had been lacking for a while now and while he couldn't bring his remaining senses to focus, he also didn't seem to be able to calm his own breathing enough to hear that of another over it.

For a moment it seemed to him as though he felt the human's presence very close, lying right next to him and watching, watching him intently in the darkness.

Without his eyes Curufinwë felt, not for the first time, lost. He didn't dare to reach out and feel for the other's body with his hands. If anything he didn't want to give that man another opportunity to mock him for his disability.

"I am here." Faramir said in a low voice as though he knew. "I wanted to talk to you, but then my courage failed me and I've just been watching you instead, pondering what to say." The elf could almost feel the man's breath on his face, so close was he. "You are very beautiful."

So he had managed to find another way to mock him after all.

Yet, what Faramir said next surprised the elf:

"I apologize for what I did to you. It was disrespectful and thoughtless. But you had –and you have—to eat and your stubbornness reminded me of one I loved and lost... for that very stubbornness. I would not ask of you to do so now, but I do hope that in time you might be able to forgive me, or at least see past this incident. What I did, I did out of concern, fear, even, but not malice. And I wanted you to know."

Curufinwë didn't know how to reply. His thoughts were too muddled and his tongue felt heavy in his mouth. His heart, if that was possible, felt heavy, too.

Suddenly he felt the man's cold hand on his forehead. Maybe a little too cold.

"You are feverish." Faramir whispered. "I could prepare you something to lower it a little. It would allow you to sleep. If you would take it."

"No." Curufinwë forced himself to reply.

"I have heard that sometimes elves fade from grief or because they grow weary of life altogether." Faramir whispered and Curufinwë tried to ignore the pleasant feeling of those cool fingers caressing his forehead and soothingly rubbing his temples. "I do not think that is the case with you. I think _you _want to live. You are just entirely too stubborn and too impulsive and short sighted in your decisions to realize that you are gradually killing yourself."

The man seemed to expect a reaction, but the elf said nothing. Sighing softly Faramir continued:

"You are not punishing or besting me with your behavior. While I wish you would live and heal and maybe allow me to help you, I hardly know you and will move on when you are gone. I am responsible for many brave man, and some women, of which each has proven their worth to me many times over and deserves my attention more than you. I fight for my country, my steward, my captain and my people. There are many battles to fight and many problems to solve. Your insistence to starve yourself to death is but the blink of an eye in the years of struggle and grief I have faced and am yet to face. And... furthermore... I realize that I have no business in telling you whether to live or die, but if you don't want your existence to end here, for your own sake, stop this nonsense before it will be too late."

Faramir left him with those words and Curufinwë could not tell where he went.


	15. Chapter 15

After most of the night had past and he was still alone, for all he could tell, Curufinwë almost feared that the human had left him for good. If 'fear' was the right word.

It took a while until Faramir returned and when he finally did, he returned with food. Again it was some kind of mush or pulp or soup or something of that sort, the elf really didn't know. In any case, it smelled delicious and the elf tensed immediately.

He tried to sit up as best as he could, readying himself to face the man. He struggled immensely in doing so, but despite his best attempts his body didn't respond the way it should have. Before he could slip and fall and worsen his injuries, however, the man reached out for him, bowl still in the other hand.

A mistake, from both of them.

Curufinwë acted on reflex. He didn't mean to strike out and hit Faramir that hard. He didn't mean to knock the food out of his hand and nearly break his wrist in the process. He didn't mean to hurt the human, not there and then, not this time. Yet, it happened. And why it happened didn't matter.

Faramir didn't scream. All Curufinwë heard, was a sharp intake of breath and a small, pain-filled moan. It was enough to tell him what he had done.  
>And hadn't it been enough, the fact that the human left without a word, would have made it clear: He had just forfeit his last chance.<p>

There would be no more offering of food or medicine, no more attempts at care or friendliness, no more sympathy.

Suddenly Curufinwë felt very small and very young and very alone. He felt his fëa curl into itself and barely registered that his body, as far as it was able to, did the same.

Time passed without him, until he felt the sun on his skin, warm and directly overhead. Midday. Faramir had not returned. Or if he had, the elf's senses no longer detected his presence.

Curufinwë couldn't tell whether it was exhaustion or hunger, desperation, fear or even anger, but thinking himself alone, he did something he hadn't done in ages: He cried.

He hadn't known that he was still able to and had he known what it would cost him, he would have fought back those tears with all his remaining strength.

Slowly salty tears seeped through underneath what remained of his eyelids and etched their way through the fresh scar-tissue that covered them. Silently at first, but hurting and burning and biting so badly soon that the elf threw his head back in agony and screamed.

His first, instinctive reaction was to move his head away from the pain. Something which was, of course, impossible. No matter how he tossed and turned, he could not escape what felt like acid being poured over his face. And the more it hurt, the more his treacherous eyes cried.

Half delirious from pain, the lack of food and now of oxygen as well, from screaming at the top of his lungs, he reached out to just rip the raw skin off his face and make the burning stop that way.

He wanted to claw at it, destroy it, stop it, just...make it go away.

It were human hands that caught his in theirs and prevented him from doing so.

It were human hands, that pressed a soft tissue soaked in something soothing and cool to the scars, extinguishing the burning and numbing the pain instantly. It was a human voice that cooed gentle nonsense words into his ears.

"Sorry." Curufinwë whispered hoarsely. "I am... I... apologize...I—" for maybe the first time in his life. "Please... didn't mean... don't—"

"Sh." Faramir made. "Sh, it's alright. I am here. I won't leave. I know you didn't mean to harm me. It was an accident." Carefully he brushed the hair that clung to the elf's forehead out of his face. He held his head and supported his upper body, so that he could breathe more easily. "Take the time you need. Sh, it's alright. Take your time. We have all the time on Arda. I am not angry with you. I know you didn't mean it." He said and added a promise: "Later we shall see if you can eat something."

Faramir held him like one would a distressed child, cradling him in his arms and caressing his head, all the while talking to him quietly, and had the circumstances been any different, Curufinwë would have protested vehemently to such treatment. Yet, this time and this time only, he was grateful for it.

When, after a while, the pain had lessened, Faramir still held him. He didn't seem to have any intentions to let him go. Instead, he reached for a new bowl of food.

The elf felt the rim of it press against his lips and the scent alone nearly overwhelmed him. _Good. So good!_ Automatically he opened his mouth this time and Faramir gently tilted the bowl, feeding him only a little at a time.

"Slowly." He whispered as Curufinwë swallowed greedily. "We have to take it slow. Your stomach has to get used to it again. I don't want you to get sick. Slowly."

The thick soup, some mixture of herbs, grain and vegetables, had grown cold, but that mattered little to the elf. When Faramir pulled the bowl away from him yet again, he reached out with both hands and held it in place. Obeying his instincts, he gulped down as much as he possibly could, as fast as he possibly could. He needed that. He needed food. Much of it. More of it. Now.

"Stop." The man warned. "Stop it. There is more than enough and we _have _time. Eat slowly... Curufinwë!"

What did he know? Elves were different from humans.

And what right did he have to order him, anyway? None! None at all!

_I am an elf! I am a king!_

The elf paid dearly for his stubbornness.

He had not yet swallowed the last mouth full of soup, when his stomach contracted painfully and tears began burning their way out once more. His whole body grew cold and before he could react, everything he had gulped down so greedily found its way back out, leaving him a helpless, trembling mess in the arms of a lowly human.

Yet, again Faramir surprised him.

Instead of being furious and reacting accordingly, he only shook his head. Curufinwë could feel the movement through the violent nausea that held him in its grip.

"I suppose." He said. "Now you know."

He didn't seem furious, no, nor was there any scorn in his voice. Neither did he seem disgusted. If anything, the elf sensed a strange, quiet sympathy in the man that he couldn't quite explain.

With unbelievable patience Faramir cleaned his stubborn charge and himself up as good as possible, before taking the elf back into his arms and proceeding to gently rub his lower back. He had brought some fragrant leaves, too, that seemed to settle Curufinwë's stomach and left a pleasant aftertaste on his tongue.

"This will pass soon. As bad as it is now, it will pass soon." He said. "It's only a natural reaction. It passes soon. I promise."

Against his will and better judgment the elf felt himself relax and at last his head sank against the man's chest, exhausted darkness claiming him.

When he awoke much later, he managed to keep a few spoons full down. This time he ate slowly, no longer trusting his once strong body's reactions.

It had been different in his first life, he thought. Or maybe he just hadn't been that damaged. Either way, he had learned his lesson for now.

During their ride he did his best to remain awake, trying hard to remember the way they were taking: landmarks, changes of direction and small details he had difficulties catching. He needed to know where the man was taking him and how to get back later on. It was vital, as a soldier he knew.

Faramir, however, made it hard for him. Whether he did so on purpose or not, Curufinwë could not tell. All he knew with certainty was how good and how right the man's touch felt on his still slightly feverish skin and that Faramir had taken his gloves off on purpose, on several occasions even letting go of the reins altogether to offer a few of those healing touches.

It wasn't wood-elf magic. It was some vile, human thing, Curufinwë had to remind himself.

Yet, those hands, those wonderful, beautiful hands.

They could not stop his strained muscles from aching, nor the soreness he felt from riding and having to remain in much the same position all the time due to his near inability to move. He was in too much pain in too many places to ease it with a simple touch, but those hands, they were warm where he was cold and pleasantly cool where his skin was burning with fever and the imprint of impossible heat that had scarred him. They had cleaned his scarred eyes, dressed them with herbs to calm the raw skin and bandaged them carefully. They offered small quantities of water and crumbs of food in regular intervals so that he wouldn't get sick again.

They were doing so now, offering, and he accepted, sweet water calming his sore throat.

Curufinwë noticed the bitter aftertaste too late and realized that the man had tricked him. The pain faded in and out, before it was almost gone, replaced by a well known numbness that had always vexed him. Darkness wrapped around him like an old, comfortable blanket and he knew no more.

When he came to, his surroundings had changed drastically.

He no longer found himself on horseback snd neither was he safe in Faramir's arms.

The elf felt the man's absence with the same intensity with which he had felt his memories lack and the fact that he did, made him angry.

Yet, instead of showing his anger, he concentrated on his breathing, decided to hide the fact that he was awake as long as possible. He had to take in these new surroundings first. At least that much he still remembered from his first life.

The soft linen underneath his fingers was the first he noticed, the rather comfortable mattress underneath him, the pleasantly warm, yet fresh air ghosting over his skin. It was a soft breeze, as though a window had been opened on a day without wind. He could hear birds and movement and voices in the distance.

When he turned his head, as though in dreams, he caught a scent that sent a shiver down his spine, the meaning of which he could not identify: The scent of his human. Faint, though, as though he had been there, but gone for a while._  
><em>

_Gone. Where to? Why? _Were they taking a rest or had they already arrived in this Minas Tirith?

"You awake?" A voice suddenly interrupted his musings.

It was the voice of a young boy, if he recognized it correctly, speaking in a terribly clumsy Sindarin, even worse than that of Faramir.

"Speak Quenya." The elf ordered automatically.

"Quenya no good." The voice tried helplessly. "No good." It repeated.

"Faramir." Curufinwë demanded. "Where is he?"

"Sorry. No good Quenya I." The boy repeated.

"I can hear that." The elf grumbled and in Sindarin he repeated his order: "Tell me: Where is Faramir?"

"Gone. Can't come now." The boy said, apparently proud that he had understood the question at all and failing to notice the elf's mounting displeasure.

"Where is he?!" Curufinwë repeated.

"Busy." The boy declared gravely.

"Bring him here! Now."

"Elf, please."

"I want Faramir!"

"Please, elf." The boy said again.

"No." Curufinwë maintained. "Faramir." And decided to call out for the elusive human himself: "Faramir!"

"Sh." The boy made. "Sh. Sh! Please, elf."

"Faramir!"

"Elf, please, please, sh!"

"I am not 'elf', you useless, little maggot!" Curufinwë barked. "You will call me 'herunya'. Or better: 'aran meletyalda'. Is that understood? Good. Now: Bring. Faramir. Here."

"I am Taran." The boy said proudly.

The elf groaned.

"You are no king, you vermin."

"Yes." The boy said enthusiastically. "No. I mean. My name. From Tarannon. He was king, long ago. In the orphanage they said: we all have that name, are all kings. That's nice. And is easier, don't have to pick many names for many children all the time." He hesitated, then added in an even louder, even happier voice: "Faramir said, I look after you as long as he- can I do something for you, yes?"

Curufinwë groaned again, loudly.


	16. Chapter 16

If Faramir weren't used to the eerie silence that reigned in the empty citadel corridors in the late afternoon hours, it might have unsettled him.

Since he_ was_ used to it, however, he didn't mind so much. Life buzzed behind each closed door, he knew. The chamberlain, right there, behind the great oak door to the left, as well as his right and left, front and back hand, councilors and clerks and assistants in their studies or in one of the council chambers, librarians and their staff in the libraries or just about every room that held important books, Cook and her minions and bottler, kitchen boys and girls in the kitchen, the herb-, fruit- and vegetable gardens or negotiating with one of the merchants or hunters, gardeners amidst their plants, the washers underneath the lines, the seamstress and her flock, the weavers, the barber, the healers, soldiers in the barracks and on the training field, falconer, marshal and grooms, stable boys, scullions, chamber maids and attendants, messengers and minstrels, lords and ladies, visitors and residents...

Faramir _had_ been afraid they might all have vanished at some point. Each time he had found himself alone in the long corridors as a child, he had to open all the doors and at least peek inside to make sure they were all still where they should be and still as whole and healthy as could be.

This way he had gotten to know many people living and working or visiting the citadel that even his father hadn't known the names of. He had made many friends as a small child, friendships he still cherished and still benefited from at times.

He had made no difference between them when he had been little. Later he had had to learn how to address and treat them properly according to their rank. That hadn't changed his sympathy for them, nor theirs for him. If anything, it had helped to strengthen it.

His brother had told him that their mother had disapproved of his behavior._  
><em>

_"The friendship of a child is too easy to win. You will grow up to trust them and favor them. You will never suspect. And they will use you."_ She allegedly had said.

Faramir didn't know whether he had obeyed her and only taken the habit back up after her death or whether he had never listened to her advice to begin with. And Boromir did not remember.

With a gesture of his hand Faramir caught one of his father's many assistants, before he could disappear behind the next door.

"The lord Steward?" He asked the scrawny man.

"In the Long Council Chamber, my lord." The assistant replied instantly. "Welcome back, my lord." He added with a quick smile, before he hurried off again.

Faramir brushed back his unwashed hair and sighed.

Sometimes, just sometimes, he wished the citadel were a little smaller, everything a little, just a little, closer together. Yes, sometimes that would be rather nice.

_The Long Council Chamber it is._

He hadn't made it halfway, when a grey-haired woman blocked his path, grabbed his arm and pulled him aside.

"Nana!" Faramir almost let out a very unmanly shriek.

"Dear Valar, look at you!" The woman chided. "You weren't planning on seeing your father like this, were you?" She shook her head and maneuvered him into a corner. It was only then that he realized she hadn't come alone. She had brought two servants, two baskets, one bucket with steaming water and several washing utensils. "Come here, boy. Whatever would you do without me."

"I just arrived. I only- Surely he would-"

"There. Strip."

The guards positioned nearby, faces usually as blank as perfect marble statues, couldn't hide their smirks fast enough. The servants discretely turned away. Faramir blushed furiously.

"Nana..." He whined.

"'_Nana'_ what? You are _dirty_! Your clothes are so stiff with dirt they would stand at attention without you in them! And...whatever this is. You- No, you aren't dirty, you are filthy. Whatever did you do to come out like this? You weren't this way as a child. Boromir was the one who always caused trouble. But you... This is horrible!"

From the corner of his eye Faramir caught the guards trying very hard to appear unperturbed.

_Careful._ He thought. _I know your names. And your captain._

"Now, strip! Out of this! I'll have this burned. This time I will, I swear." She made a dismissive gesture, silencing every possible objection from his side right away. "Up. Hurry. We don't have all day. Your father expects you, you are late already."

Reluctantly, but without complaining, Faramir unlaced his jerkin, slid out of the long tunic, his shirt and finally his breeches. He knew when he had lost a battle. In Nana's case usually long before he had even begun to fight it.

To him and his brother she was the closest to a mother as it could get.

Sometimes Boromir would say: _"Finduilas was different."_, but never more.

Maybe it was the fact that Nana had decided to take care of them long before Denethor had, that had played a part in Faramir's older brother being won over so quickly.

On the other hand, it might just have been Nana's talent to convince.

She had convinced her parents to let her travel alone to Minas Tirith when she had been but twelve, after all. And not for any reason: for study. Later she had convinced a man to leave his wife for her. Something that had resulted in her immediate rise in status from that of the seventh daughter of some lesser noble man of dubious credentials to that of one of the most powerful women in Gondor. Afterwards she had convinced Denethor to leave the care of his sons to her. And she could convince Cook to part with her famous honey rolls and berry cakes any time she wished - A dark and mysterious art Faramir had yet to master.

What resulted so convincing about Nana was not something easy to figure out. She had never been exceptionally beautiful, as far as Faramir could remember. She had, however, always been caring, disarmingly eloquent and stunningly intelligent. Though, she didn't always show it and maybe that was her secret.

From her Faramir had learned to listen and to, sometimes, just stand aside. As well as to love, unconditionally. That, too.

Nana motioned for one of her servants to collect his dirty clothes, holding his shirt rather gingerly between her fingers and dropping it into one of the baskets herself, while ordering the other to pour hot water and some scented oil into a shallow bowl.

"You can be so glad I thought of this." She told Faramir, taking the bowl from the servant and pushing it into his hands, while she herself began cleaning him.

"I can do this mys—" Faramir hissed when she rubbed her washcloth over a particularly nasty bruise.

Nana stopped still immediately.

"But however did you come by those... oh, dear..." she whispered, only now taking in his slightly battered form.

"Only scratches, Nana." He told her, but she would have none of it.

"Scratches! Boy, look at you! And the way you're holding that bowl? What's with your wrist? The scratcher broke your wrist, too? And cut you! And beat you! And-"

"I'm fine Nana." Faramir said gently. With his hands momentarily occupied, he leaned his head against her shoulder to calm her.

She took a deep breath.

"Nana, I'm fine." He repeated. "I tried to clean up a little on the way, but—"

"Did it lousily." Nana sentenced and continued her work, much more carefully this time. Her sharp remark could not hide the affection that colored her voice and showed in her actions. "I know you are soldiers now, your brother and you, but..." She shook her little, grey head and shrugged. "I will have a bath prepared for you when you've spoken to your father. And then you will go to the healers. This." She pointed at his wrist. "Has to be seen to. The rest, too. But first you will take a long, hot bath. First. Not afterwards. I don't want the healers' work to be all in vain when scrub of their salves and ointments directly afterwards—oh! Don't look at me like that, you know perfectly well what I am talking about!"

Faramir grinned sheepishly.

"There, all done. This will have to do. At least it's a little better now. Be glad I thought of this, too." She said and waving one servant to take the bowl from him and the other to hand over fresh clothes from the second basket they had brought. "Or you could march in there and meet your father and his foreign guests naked." She eyed him critically. "The woman might approve. Them wild riders prefer scarred men. Cook told me just yesterday."

"Woman?" Faramir asked, taking the pieces of clothing he was handed one by one and putting them on quickly.

"The Variag brought a woman. No one knows whether she is his wife or daughter or who, but she goes with him everywhere. They are both with your father right now."

"I see."

Nana tsked, showcasing that she did not approve of the way he had dressed himself, and began un- and relacing velvet jerkin and virginal bracers that sported not a single mark or speck of dirt and would never see battle.

"Be careful with her." Nana whispered nearly inaudible. "She has strange, wild eyes. Like a boar with the dogs hot on its trail. Whatever she came here to do, she is determined to do it. It is her only option and she will not be persuaded. Be careful." She continued pulling here and there until she was satisfied.

"And the man?" Faramir asked as quietly.

"Men." She huffed. "What do I know about men? I do not attempt to see into your souls. It has always been more comforting for me not to know the goings-on in your minds." That was her way of saying he was either more dangerous or more harmless. He would have to speak to her once he had formed his own opinion. She would not talk to him about it now, no matter what he tried. He knew her well enough. "There. Off you go. I'll have your bath prepared in your chambers."

"Tell Taran." Faramir remembered to tell her just in time.

"Surely that poor child has better things to do." She began.

"Taran is of age and he is my attendant for something. Tell him. He will take care of this. You don't have to take care of everything yourself." He smiled encouragingly. "Maybe you can persuade Cook to part with a few of her sweetmeats if you tell her that Variag women prefer men with scars because they tell the tale of their lives more clearly than words ever could? They speak of the battles they have fought and the accidents they have had. A scar, at best, proves strength, a daring spirit, a strong will to survive and makes wiser, I was told."

"Sweetmeats, is it?" Nana chuckled, standing on her toes to be at eye level with him. "You're still such a child sometimes. I will see what I can do for you."

Before Faramir continued on his way, he kissed her and hugged her tightly, well aware of the servants' warm smiles. "Thank you." He whispered against her ear. "I love you, Nana. It's good to be home."

"I love you, too, little one." She replied before they let go of each other. "I'm glad you made it. Your brother is still out there and- well, you never know."


	17. Chapter 17

_**Since there is very little material about the people of Khand I made up a little of my own. So: Don't quote me on this! Tolkien never wrote those things. Though, that is the case with most of this story. I hope you don't mind.**_

_**Enjoy and share your thoughts with me!**_

* * *

><p>Faramir had entered the Long Council Chamber through one of the many discrete side-doors. He knew how to come and go silently.<p>

As a child his father had often allowed him to be present during council sessions. To learn. It was strange how he remembered this so clearly, but not his mother. At first, when he had still been small and harmless enough, he had sat on his father's lap, wrapped contentedly into his arms and the long sleeves of his robe. Later it had become a shared secret between only his father and him and he had hidden in the shadows, always listening intently.

In those same, familiar shadows was where Faramir remained now, near the outer row of columns and statues that almost seemed to watch the three people seated at the long, otherwise empty table with the same interest as he did. Though, stones seldom listened, not in this part of the citadel where the walls were thick and the servants silent.

Faramir, however, did listen.

It was the voice of the Variag emissary he heard first.

"Try to view me as a vendor, an honest merchant. That is what we are in the first place. We are no savages. We have no enmity with Gondor, other than that those that pay us have."

"I would not think so." Denethor said. "Gondor killed many of your men."

"That is what happens in battle." The Variag replied. "That is what happens when you –what do you call it?—'sell your sword' and fight. We have done this for generations and many kings. We calculate our cost beforehand. Everyone knows."

"Yet, you make such an outrageous proposal." Denethor pointed out, reaching for his cup to take a sip. He took his time tasting what Faramir supposed to be the wine he always drank and knew the taste of fairly well, completely ignoring the Variag while he did so.

Faramir felt a smile tuck at the corners of his mouth.

Pretending to be otherwise occupied and not at all interested in the conversation at hand had always been one of Denethor's favorite methods to disconcert his opponents.

The Variag was still rather young, compared, and it seemed he fell for it.

"Outrageous, my lord?!" He began, but caught himself in time. "How so?" He continued after swallowing hard and with forced politeness. "Surely you can see that the gain far outweighs the const. Your son might agree."

"No son of mine would agree to such madness." Denethor made clear, without so much as looking at the Variag. "No son of Gondor would."

"We shall ask him then, your son, and see." The man from Khand ventured. "It is his decision to make, in any case, is it not?"

Faramir cringed inwardly when his father turned towards the other man, his voice hard and his eyes dangerously sharp. No one wanted to be at the receiving end of the Steward's scrutiny and, for the matter, disapproval. Not when he had been young and not today.

At no age would Denethor be softened and worn down by his years, Faramir thought and, secretly, hoped. He could not imagine his father as being old and doddering and he knew, neither could his father.

"No." He said. "It is not. He is a captain of Gondor. There are decisions that concern him, but are not his to make. He knows his duty."

A complex play of emotions flickered over the Variag's face at that.

"I apologize, my lord." He finally all but whispered. "I did not mean to insinuate otherwise."

"You did not." Denethor replied coolly. "You did so earlier, when you suggested this madness and expected me to accept it. I may be older than you, but I am no fool, 'merchant'."

"But I am, I fear." The Variag replied, more evenly now. "For I fail to see how this simple gesture of good will and new trust between our peoples insults you so. It would serve as an example of Gondor's greatness and your willingness to cooperate. My people would be reassured and calmed by such a step. It would be a gesture of friendship. On the contrary, your rejection would be seen by many as insulting and a threat."

Denethor shook his head. "You try to sell me goods I haven't seen and that may as well never be delivered for a much too high price."

The Variag cleared his throat. "Oh, but it is very difficult with the Variags, you see, very complicated." He said. "You must know that it is Variags who are paid to fight against you, yes? But not all people of Khand are Variags. And not all that call themselves 'Variag' are warriors. It is...a very old name for many people. Some once were warriors, but parted from that way and have kept the name. In the same manner the leader of a -what call it so you understand? Tribe, maybe. – The leader of a tribe will be called a commander, like, a captain, for military." As flawless as his Westron sounded, it became clear that he struggled whenever he did not remember the sentences he had prepared and memorized beforehand or tried to formulate something on his own. "So, many... they used to be warriors and traveled with the great armies all over Middle Earth and some say, beyond. Until they traveled alone. There was a time when wars, great and small, were scarce and sometimes men weary of battle. And over time they offered more and more, ah, different services and goods, those too, and many laid their weapons down and kept their horses. Khand has some fine horses, I dare say. Surely you would enjoy—" He caught Denethor's frown and stopped himself in time. "Others, of course, still are warriors and offer their services as such. However, not all Variag warriors are bought to fight against you. We are a varied people and we settle and travel in many groups, some smaller, some bigger. Some are warriors and others not, some are both."

"And we have to assume you speak for all of them?" Faramir heard his father ask with little conviction.

"Maybe."

"Gondor has no interest in 'maybe'. I have no interest in 'maybe'."

"We are many people, that is true, and many different... authorities... lead our people in different situations and areas." The Variag replied with a smile. "But we are not separate from each other as much as you might think. Or directionless. We have great meetings, of all tribes. Gatherings. And there a leader is chosen for the next years to come, an All-tribes-leader. Many talk, some marry. You know, these things." He shrugged and his smile widened into a grin, before he turned serious once more. "The All-tribes-leader hosts the gatherings and suggests which direction we should take, while traveling and while making decisions concerning, for example, offering our services. The tribe commanders decide if they join in that direction or choose a different way once the gathering is over and each tribe goes their way."

"How many listen to that leader?" Denethor asked skeptically.

"That depends on what he suggests and how he presents it, what arguments and... incentives... he has." He nodded to himself. "If Gondor has something good to offer and promises to be a... rewarding... partner." He opened his hands in a gesture that would have set a dove free, had he held one. "Many tribes might decide to side with you." He finished. "Not all. Never all. But many. And the more agree to follow you, the more will join them. We are lonely travelers. We enjoy being part of a majority every now and then."

Faramir had heard this explanation about the Variags and their ways before. That either meant it was the truth or some rather elaborate lie to avoid responsibility. The fact that the one who had told him about this before had used much the exact same words suggested that the latter was the case and Faramir wondered whether his father remembered, if he should tell him and if it would matter.

"Gondor has more to offer than Mordor." Denethor pointed out.

"For now." Was the Variag's reply.

"Gondor has no need of mercenaries. Even less so of those that cannot be trusted to live up to their side of the bargain. We have no use for shaky alliances." Denethor drank, a little too deeply for Faramir's taste. Sometimes he wished he didn't know his father so well, while at the same time counting them lucky that most others did not.

"Mercenary." The Variag said, oblivious to the Steward's slip in composure, almost enthusiastically testing the word. "Mercenary. That is what you call it, yes. We are free until we choose our employers. Once chosen we swear an oath of fealty. We stand by this oath. It is very important to us. To all of our culture. An oath breaker will never be welcome anywhere, in any tribe, in all of Khand. We are bound by such an oath. It means absolute loyalty until we are released from it." His smile was gone, his eyes hard. "Once a Variag swears such an oath he becomes a weapon. We are the weapon, not the arm that wields it. We either break or are put away. Until that day comes we serve."

"And who could blame you for it."

The Variag frowned and opened his mouth as though to say: You do, apparently. Yet, he did not. Instead he said: "You do not blame the axe for what the man who wields it does with it. Variags are the axe."

"An axe makes no decisions. Men do." Denethor replied.

"That is correct. But that is why I am here, yes? To help my people make the right decision."

"I doubt that."

For the first time since Faramir had arrived the woman spoke, in a strange, distanced voice as though reciting a verse she remembered well: "If you doubt long, things will have changed when you make your decision. It may no longer be valid. It may no longer be available."

_They aren't that wild, her eyes._ Faramir thought, observing her more closely. In fact, her eyes seemed to him: _Rather pretty, actually._ They were those dark amber eyes that had always fascinated him. And her behavior, so far, had not indicated any wildness or desperation of any kind. She seemed rather... introverted, for lack of adjectives, her smile serene and her eyes absent-minded.

Maybe Nana had erred this once and allowed appearance to deceive her. As expertly as she handled courtiers and city dwellers, she had little experience with foreigners. Certainly none with people from Khand.

What could have seemed so 'wild' to her might have been nothing but the face-paint the woman wore and the broad, golden ring piercing her nose, connected to another in her ear by a thick chain. There was a certain wildness to those two details.

The red and black paint around her eyes and on her chin made her look like a warrior. A warrior with large, intimidating eyes that saw everything and a blood dripping, foaming mouth. That was the idea, Faramir had learned in what seemed ages ago.

The many small braids holding her long hair out of her face, to be twisted into one, thick braid in the end, fit this idea perfectly. Yet, the artful jewelry, made of layers and layers of woven and twisted gold and pearls to imitate not just flowers, but a whole thicket with animals and monsters hiding in it and certainly impossible to price, was nothing a warrior would wear.

_That is bridal jewelry._ Faramir deducted and wondered, not for the first time, if his father had noticed and if they should care.

He had seen Variag women before, in the camps they had snuck into. He saw those women in her now. The women he had grabbed by the arm and led away. The women he had silenced with his hand over their mouths or while his men had butchered their husbands, brothers and sons before their eyes. The women he had killed in the dead of night or left alive to awake to the screams and wailing of their sisters.

He saw what a monster he could be in her and turned away. Too late, for she had already noticed him.

"It seems we are being spied on." She said, a little more alert now and in a beautifully rounded accent that shortened some vowels and left out certain consonants, while carefully highlighting others.

Denethor's head spun around and his glare only softened slightly when he recognized his son.

"Why are you lingering in the shadows?" He asked. "Have you no manners?"

"I apologize." Faramir said readily and stepped forward. "My lord Steward. My lady. My lord." Folding his arm over his chest, he bowed briefly. "I did not mean to pry. My only intention was to wait before I approached and not interrupt you. I meant no offense."

"Do you ever?" Denethor grumbled to himself.

"I will be waiting outside for you, father." Faramir said.

"Will he go?" The Variag woman asked the steward. "He will go?" She asked her companion. "No!" She demanded from both of them. "Let him stay."

Resuming his conversation with the Variag, Denethor made a dismissive gesture and when Faramir inclined his head in understanding and then came to sit at the table with them, the woman smiled. Somehow she had fully become part of this world again. Any sign of shyness or detachment instantly vanished.

"I am Shagatah." She introduced herself. "He is Meleem. We are representatives of the Variags of Khand, of the warriors and those that are not. He is representing the current All-tribes-leader and I am." She searched for the right word. "Stargazer. Of the Khocari tribe."

_A Stargazer? Why would the Variags send a stargazer on a mission like this?  
><em>

A Stargazer was the most valued and most protected member of each tribe, Faramir had learned once. They were shielded as much as possible from the outside world and even from their own companions.

She was a wise woman, healer, poet, lore master, navigator. The Stargazer decided which route the tribe took on its travels and when. She settled disputes and took care of the sick that no one else dared coming close to. She honored the dead and of those important enough she remembered life and deeds, both good and bad, without judgment.

While doing so, she always remained outside of the actual tribe, always a few steps away from the others, not related or relating to anyone aside those that asked her specific questions and left right away as soon as they had received their answer. She had no family. No mother and father, siblings or children. Personal interaction, personal involvement was not wanted. The Stargazer had to remain distant. Otherwise her view would be clouded and her council would be corrupted. She would lose her gift and her worth for the tribe.

_Yet, this one is here._

And she proved quite talkative, too. Though, even her taste for talk seemed to know an end.

"I wonder: Is it called the Long Council Chamber because the talking in here takes so long?" She said after a good while and thereby effectively ended their session for the day.

Faramir was grateful for it. He had yet to talk to his father and it was not a talk he looked forward to.


	18. Chapter 18

Once the two Variags had left Denethor emptied his cup and put it back down on the table with a little too much force.

"Late." He said unceremoniously.

"I know, father." Faramir replied. He didn't like talking to his father's back and Denethor knew. That was why he made him do so in the first place. "I apologize. There were... difficulties on the road."

"Difficulties?"

"Bandits. Ten of them. It was an ambush, pure chance." Faramir let out the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding and admitted: "I didn't pay enough attention."

Denethor almost turned, barely keeping himself from looking back over his shoulder at his younger son. Instead, for a moment, he looked in direction of one of the walls where there was really nothing interesting to see.

"You killed them, I suppose?" He asked, turning his attention back to his cup and busying himself in refilling it.

"Yes." Faramir replied.

"All of them?"

"No. Some... fled."

"And you let them." A statement, no question. A sip of wine.

Faramir wished he could drink, too. His mouth felt very dry.

"It will not happen again." He forced himself to say as evenly as possible.

"It might as well." Came the prompt reply.

"I will not make that mistake again." He corrected himself.

"No. You will not."

Finally Denethor turned and Faramir almost lowered his eyes in reflex. He knew, he should have gotten used to this by now. Yet, he never truly had and probably never would. The fact that this great and noble lord who could easily have been a king befitting Gondor had he been less righteous was his father didn't make it easier.

"See the healers about that." Denethor said after a heavy moment of silent scrutiny, pointing at Faramir's wrist. "And tell them to prepare something for your lungs as well. You cannot afford getting sick again. There is much work to do and we will need every man fighting soon. I can feel it."

So he had noticed. Faramir subconsciously touched his throat. Not even Nana had. Nor the elf. Though, the latter could not have been expected to pay attention to it. Not in the state he was in.

"Rain. Cold nights. It's nothing." He assured his father carefully. "My breathing changes slightly, but that is all. It usually passes rather quickly. I am a ranger. I am used to-"

"Nonsense." Denethor interrupted him. "You are as weak as your mother was in this. See to it."

Faramir bowed his head. As was the case with Nana, he knew when not to pick a fight with his father. That was, granted, most of the time, but in particular whenever he brought up Finduilas.

"As you wish." He said.

"Tell me." Denethor finally asked. "What do you make of our...guests?"

"Nothing, so far." Faramir admitted. "I would need more time to get to know them. Their mimic and gestures are very different from ours at times, even though familiar at others. Their pronunciation is as well. There is little it could tell me about their true intentions, beside the obvious. I... sense nothing of evil in the woman. There seems to be much she is hiding and for good reasons, I suppose. But as of yet I cannot tell if that concerns Gondor, or even anyone beside herself. She should not be here. As a Stargazer she belongs with her tribe. There must be a very good reason for them to part with her, even if it only be for a short diplomatic visit of little danger and potentially lucrative outcome. Normally they wouldn't do that. I do not know if we should consider this a sign of our importance to them and of their determination to win our trust or a warning. It is, certainly, noteworthy, however."

Denethor listened in silence, then turned away again.

"It is the woman that caught your interest this time? That is unexpected." He said.

He said it and it stung. From anyone else it would have been an coincidental remark of no great importance. Coming from his father, however, it was not. As subtle as it was, it was well aimed.

"That was unnecessary, father."

"That it was." Denethor licked his lips and it almost seemed he was about to sigh and only just stopped himself. "Now." He exhaled deeply. "Since you have taken a liking to her, you will not mind entertaining her for the time being."

"Pardon?" _I thought I was ordered back here to-_

"Spend all your time with her. Day and night. See if you can learn something useful."

_No!_ Not that he would have minded her company. She seemed rather pleasant and her culture, even though that of occasional enemies, fascinated him, but he was by no means a Lady's Companion.

"Surely there are more important things for me to do. Maybe in your negotiations with the emissary—" He tried, but was interrupted rather harshly.

"No. He wanted you here. You are here. I promised him nothing else. He naturally expected that you would join our talks once you are here, but I will not have it. I will not do him the favor of allowing him to use your voice against me in these negotiations, as he has surely counted on."

Faramir had enough experience in these kind of games to realize that he was gradually being turned into a pawn and though he didn't like it one bit, for the time being there was hardly anything he could do against it.

"I thought I could help." He heard himself say. "Really help, I mean."

"Then obey me for once, Faramir! I am still Gondor's ruling steward and even with your brother leading our men so well in battle I still do have some uses left."

"Of course." It was the truth, was it not?

"Was there anything else?"

"Yes. There is...something else. Something I encountered rather unexpectedly and do not know what to make of. It might prove useful. Might. I had hoped to ask Mithrandir about it, but it has been years since I last saw him and—" Faramir saw his father's face contort ever so briefly at the mention of the old wizard who had been both friend and tutor to him. A fundamental dislike that he had never quite understood and that he still could not seem to handle very well.

"And what is it?" The Steward asked darkly. "What do you bring me that could concern a wizard?"

Faramir said nothing and instead took off the amulet he had been carrying around his neck for quite some time. It was of the kind the Easterlings used for protection, as well as to remind them of and connect them to their homeland. A rather simple leather pouch, usually filled with earth and some smaller items like little carvings, stones or shells. It looked so plain and had become so common even among Gondorians near the borders that the bandit who had searched him hadn't cared for it at all and Nana, too, had ignored it even when it had been the last item he had worn on his body.

Carefully Faramir emptied the pouch out on the conference table.

"River-sand, Ithilien earth and an arrowhead." He explained with a smile when Denethor raised a questioning eyebrow. "Here."

Almost gingerly Faramir handed the item he had hidden in the pouch to his father.

"It is such a small trinket." He explained. "Yet, I sense a great power about it. And the man who found it, he—"

"A brass locket?" Denethor asked incredulously.

Faramir shook his head. "Open it." He told his father. "But open it carefully. I believe it is inlaid in this locket for a good reason. The material isn't brass, though, if you look more closely. I believe the locket works as a shield, a protection, maybe, not just as a camouflage. Do not touch it. One of my men did. Accidentally. It... did not end well."

For the man's sake and his own Faramir could not tell Denethor about what exactly had happened. Luckily enough the Steward didn't care to probe.

Instead, he concentrated on the locket. He opened it suspiciously and almost instantly smashed it on the table. He did not step back hastily, like Faramir would have expected and like he himself had done the first time. Nor did he avert his eyes. Instead, he looked directly at what the locket contained, without flinching or blinking. He seemed so close to reaching out and touching it against his son's advice that Faramir tensed.

Denethor's eyes were wide, but not with fear. There was something else visible on his usually so stern features. Something that made him look younger and a stranger.

He seemed shaken and enthralled at the same time, in a manner Faramir had never seen before, while the small jewel inside the locket, no bigger than a pigeon's egg, glowed in a splendor and an intensity that rivaled the quick, blinding reflection of sunlight on water. The glow swelled and ebbed away like waves at sea and at its brightest it was almost too bright to look at with the naked eye. At its darkest it resembled the light of a full moon.

The light seemed to be caught inside the jewel, wafting like mist, and playing over its outer shell, too, like a myriad of bright raindrops running over its surface.

"I see it now. This is indeed..." Denethor began and interrupted himself. "Something familiar about this... This small thing might prove of great importance to us." He looked up at Faramir and his thoughtful tone turned into that of an order: "You will not tell the wizard about this, should he appear unexpectedly as is his wont. And you will not tell your brother, either."

Faramir nodded, taking the locket back with the same dreadful feeling of foreboding that had assaulted him the first time he had taken the jewel into his possession. He had hoped talking to his father would serve to ease some of it. Instead, it had intensified and he suddenly wondered if he had done the right thing.

"We will see what to do about this." Denethor mused. "I need time."

Suddenly he turned and grabbed Faramir's shoulders.

"Don't tell anyone. Do you hear me, boy?" He repeated.

His grip was hard and unyielding and it was painful where there were bruises underneath.

"Yes, of course. I would never—"

"What is that?" A loud voice interrupted them. Neither of them had heard the doors open, but they undoubtedly had been. They stood wide open and the culprit approached them grinning and caked with dirt. "My little brother and my father? Secrets? Whispering behind my back?" Boromir laughed and Faramir fought the sudden urge to throw himself into his brother's arms in greeting.

He couldn't do that, not in front of their father who demanded respect and composure, but he would hug him later, as hard as he possibly could, when they were alone. He always did. Every time Boromir returned safe and sound it seemed to him like a miracle.

It wasn't that Boromir couldn't hold his own against whatever enemy. In fact, he was by far the better fighter. He was, however, also the more daring one and once lost in the heat of battle he would not heed any warning, neither of advisors nor of his own body. He would fight till exhaustion. Till death. Always in the front row. There were no ambushes, no arrow shots from a safer distance for him. He would charge. And one day he would die like that.

"Oh, don't tell me." Boromir continued, his jovial mood brightening up the whole council chamber. "It's about my birthday, isn't it? You are planning on finally getting me those books on romantic elvish poetry and those fine satin shoes I never wanted! How very dear of you!"

"Boromir!" Denethor exclaimed overjoyed, pressing his oldest son's shoulder approvingly. "Welcome home. You arrived earlier than we expected. Good, very good. There is much we have to discuss." He turned to search for something amidst the documents he had left on the council table. "I will need your help."

"No jokes about coming too early, you little imp. I can see it in your eyes. You desperately want to." Boromir said in a low voice after inching closer to his younger brother, but added in a much more serious tone: "Why didn't you come to me first?"

"I was told you weren't here. You... heard? Saw?"

"Everything." His brother confirmed. "I may not be as shrewd as you and father, but I am no idiot and I can keep still and quiet for a bit if need be."

"Boromir! Come here, look at this. I need your advice." Denethor exclaimed and waved the older brother closer, while at the same time gesturing for Faramir to leave.

"We will talk about this later." Boromor whispered, ruffling his brother's hair. "I am here, father. What is it you need?"


	19. Chapter 19

"Curufinwë." A voice said some distance away.

It sounded as though someone had sat down by the window a few steps away and was speaking too softly to him while he was still half-asleep. Which was partly true. At first he even considered that he might have imagined hearing that voice or that it was part of some curious dream he hadn't yet decided to call a nightmare.

It took him a moment to fully realize that it was not the dreaded voice of that dimwitted menace that had pestered him for the better part of the day after all.

_And calling him a menace is putting it lightly._

In a sense, he thought, he should be grateful. In his anger about that boy who couldn't or didn't want to understand him and refused to do as ordered, always pointing out that 'Faramir told me' and 'Faramir wouldn't like', he had momentarily forgotten about everything else. Including his pain and the currently rather bleak outlook on his future.

"I brought you something." The voice said and slowly drifting out of reverie the elf finally recognized it: Faramir. At long last. "I am a terrible cook and not very persuasive, either. So, the work for this has almost entirely been done by others. But at least the idea was mine. Does that count for something?" He cleared his throat. "I thought you might like it."

The elf tried to stretch and groaned upon realizing his mistake. His body had felt numb, but everything that wasn't right with it was still rather prominently there and for an instant he got to feel its full potential. Afterwards, when he lay as still as possible, the pain seemed gone at first, but then came slowly seeping back, his anger at it in its wake.

Faramir had fallen silent for a moment._  
><em>

_I care not for your pity._ The elf thought.

"We will have a proper meal later." The man thankfully said. Everything else would have been wrong. "But since it is not yet time for it to be served, I figured something much too sweet and entirely unhealthy would be nice... It's not sticky, though. I asked for that. You can eat it easily, it's small pieces. And you can touch them. If you feel for the decoration you can tell which is which and pick those you like. I recommend the round ones with the little...crumbly things... on top, but they're all fine, really. Try them."

_Sweetmeats. He brought me sweetmeats._ Curufinwë almost chuckled and yet, something was off about his savior's characteristically caring manner this time.

"They are on the small table to your right. Just stretch out your arm a bit. You should be able to reach them rather comfortably the way you are propped up against the pillows now." Faramir said and seemed to have no intention to move himself.

"Why... so far away?" The elf asked before thinking. "Afraid I might hit you again?"_  
><em>

_You would deserve it, you know that fully well, you... human. _

"Among other things. First and foremost I didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable. You were asleep and you are, even if you would like to deny it, very vulnerable at the moment."

"Uncomfortable? How much more uncomfortable do you think I can possibly get?" The elf hissed almost reflexively. "You tricked me!"

"On the road, in a way, yes. You needed sleep. You still do. To heal. I could not have you dying on our way here and I figured it would be in your own interest."

There was something about Faramir, this Faramir right there and then, that Curufinwë didn't like.

"You are different." More guarded, less open, more decisive and distanced, harsher, somehow. As an elf he could feel it, but even as a human he might have noticed.

"You may be right." Faramir sighed. "The citadel changes you—me. I am different here than from who I can be... outside. In that I'm taking after my mother, or so I am told."

_His mother._ Curufinwë had overheard his annoying, little overseer he assumed to be Faramir's younger brother, mostly for the wide-eyed way he viewed the older man, talking to someone he had called 'nana'.

Maybe there was a chance that at least Faramir's mother was of elven descent. Some wood-elf wench, surely, but it would at least be something. It would elevate his savior slightly above the rest of those sickly, mortal creatures he seemed to be stuck with for the time being. That made everything more bearable.

"Does my being different bother you?" Faramir asked.

"I am just glad you are not—" Curufinwë suddenly realized something he hadn't thought of before. "That little, talking rat you left to watch over me knows Quenya, does he not? He only pretends not to because it vexes me!"

If Faramir grinned, the elf didn't know. He supposed so, though.

"You didn't tell him your name." The man simply said.

"No. I don't tell my name to just anyone." _Someone might recognize it. I doubt he would if you didn't, but he might mention it to someone who could. He seems rather prone to idle chatter._ At least from what Curufinwë had overheard earlier._  
><em>

"He may call you 'herunya'." Faramir told him. "If that pleases you, but with asking him to call you 'Your Majesty' you went a little too far." He shifted his position slightly and the elf wondered for how long exactly he had been sitting in the same spot. "You have to keep in mind that you are in Gondor now. Gondor has no king. And calling yourself such might lead people to wrong conclusions with consequences neither of us can foretell..." There was more, but Faramir didn't say it. "How are you feeling?" He asked instead. "'That little rat' is preparing a bath for you, I thought I inform you. If you would like. Afterwards I will bring a healer. He will be able to do much more for you than I possibly could."

Curufinwë grunted discontentedly. He hated being made decisions for and even though he should, by all means, be glad that the human apparently had not gotten to attached after all, he didn't like this more distanced Faramir, either.

To his relief, however, the healer that was brought in a while later proved to be more competent than the elf could have hoped for, considering he was but a human.

Faramir seemed to like him and trust him well enough. And at least he was no child of forty or fifty years. _  
><em>

_Thirty! He had...touched... a thirty-year-old! By the Valar!_

Curufinwë understood that humans viewed age differently and maybe their minds and bodies developed differently. Nevertheless, the fact of Faramir's age remained and made him feel rather uncomfortable every time he thought back on their... encounter.

That was why he focused on other things. Just as trivial, of course. And soon he saw a sneaking suspicion confirmed. The healer called Faramir 'my boy' in a voice that he himself had used often enough. It meant: I will shield your body with mine to protect you from harm if I must. I love you, unconditionally, and you will always be my child, no matter how big you grow and no matter what crimes you commit. I will always be there for you. And I do not approve of you getting too well acquainted with that suspicious elf.

Why Faramir didn't introduce his father to him was beyond the elf's comprehension. He did sense a great deal of love and respect between the two man, as far as humans in their limits were able to feel those emotions, and decided that this had to be one of those strange human customs he did not understand.

Faramir's father being a healer certainly explained how his mother could possibly be an elf and it relieved Curufinwë immensely. He had probably come across her wounded and wooed her with his caring nature and knowledge of bitter herbs and amputations. Wood-elves probably liked that. And his healing skills had some use.

Of course those healing skills were nowhere near those of the elves, but at least he was clean and worked cleanly and didn't attempt to cut off anything he shouldn't or bleed the elf dry for healing. Nor were any animal droppings, crushed bones or butterflies that hatched in a virgin's unmentionables involved.

As Curufinwë had suspected, however, there was little a human could do about his eyes. Even though he, quite ironically, promised to 'look into it'. Whatever that promise was worth.

He did, however, fairly passable on Curufinwë's legs and the elf approved of his work. The toughness and the inherit healing powers of his elven body contributed to that and, as the elf suspected, probably were the main reason for his slow, but steady recovery.

During this recovery Curufinwë was patient.

Then his patience wore thin.

And then it ran out.

Faramir's flying visits – in his own chambers, no less, where he occasionally slept somewhere near the fire-place while the elf occupied his bed- were an annoyance rather than anything else and didn't help the matter either.

'Busy' the little rat said whenever Curufinwë asked. Faramir was 'busy'.

_Busy!  
><em>

He wasn't busy. He just made himself scarce. Everywhere. Anywhere. Curufinwë had overheard two women in the hallway when Faramir had not even noticed them. One had considered knocking on the door and asking for the man. The other had convinced her not to. And with good reasons, apparently.

"I wanted to invite him. He helped preparing our festivals ever since and he was very friendly. He said he always enjoyed his stays at the Riddermark and that he felt a great kinship to our people... that he felt free on horseback and... It seemed to mean much to him...and he never once came. After all the trouble he went through to convince the Lord Steward we could hold them." The first woman had said, pretending to speak her muddled Sindarin as casually as though it were her mother tongue. Which it clearly was not. Even for muddled Sindarin this was bad.

It was a sign of nobility to do so, Faramir had told him. To the elf it was ridiculous. Amusing, though, as it was.

"Of course he never came. I asked him once. Last year. What did he tell? He's got better things to do than associating with us stinking horse huggers. Like everyone else in this high and mighty city. More important. Better people than us. More refined. Offering more chances to make it in this city. Would hurt his reputation, his status if he were seen with us." The other had replied.

"That doesn't sound like him at all! He is a nice man! Not like the high nobles here. He's not! He didn't say that, did he?"

"Well not in those exact words. But that's what he thinks. What everyone here thinks. They think themselves superior to us. All of them Gondorians! Even the lowest nobles! Even the kitchen staff!"

"That's not true!"

"He's not a nice man, I tell you. He only pretends to as long as it benefits him. That's worse, far worse. Such people are worse. You never know what they truly think and what they are truly up to. That makes them false and dangerous. He's dangerous."

"Dangerous?! Don't be ridiculous!" The naive woman had all but shrieked.

"I've even heard the lord Denethor say it and he should know. He said Faramir isn't even a real captain and certainly no real city noble, but he's more dangerous than the Captain-General Boromir. And, now, _that's_ a man. He could rip your arms out with his bare hands!"

"Now you are making things up to scare me!"

"No. But if you don't believe me just know that at the least that Faramir, he's got no real interest in people. Or feasts. Or us! He doesn't care. He only pretends to. He's no different than all the others. Or why do you think he never came and won't come this time?"

"But maybe...he's just shy? Or needs someone to remind him? Or he is...well, he is always so correct." That woman had seemed really young and painfully romantic. "Maybe he just won't come because no one invited him?"

"I did. Last year. I told you."

"Oh. Well. Yes. But—"

"He said he wouldn't come last time. Too busy. No use inviting him now. Just leave it be. He's got no interest in this. In us. You're better off far away from that man. Really. Come away."

They had left and the elf assumed Faramir had not even heard the hushed conversation taking place in front of the thick door of his tiny chamber, nor noticed anyone in the hallway. Human senses were so very dulled and insufficient. He did not react to it, just continued scratching paper with his quill.

Was there nowhere else he could take his scribbling? Did it have to last until late at night when others wanted and, according to himself, _needed_ to sleep?

In any case, the way those two women viewed Faramir told Curufinwë a lot about the man. It told him that he was very likely right.

His savior was the son of a healer who had fought tooth and nail to gain a position as some minor captain and schemed to remain there. That wasn't unheard of. And somehow the elf held more sympathy for those who fought their way up, as compared to those who struggled to maintain their position when starting out already there. There was more heroism to climbing upwards, somehow.

In the back of his mind he knew that for himself only clinging to the edge trying not to fall applied. Not very heroic. A sting in his pride that grew until it consumed him whole.

The healer had told him to wait. His legs needed to heal, the broken bones to grow back together, the tissue to mend itself. Only afterwards he would be able to start training his muscles in order to move them at all. Not a word about walking.

Curufinwë had enough. Enough of waiting. Enough of lying in bed. Enough of being useless, vulnerable and tied down to this one, stuffy, meaningless place. He needed out. He needed up. He needed—

He had done this before. He had been wounded in a minor skirmish after a diplomatic visit he had been forced to attend and when a small battalion, apparently unsatisfied with said diplomatic visit's outcome, had stormed into their makeshift camp to slaughter them all, he had grabbed his sword they had kept near his stretcher and rammed it into the next enemy's head. He had pushed himself up and joined the battle, wounded as he was. And they had won.

It had been glorious.

He could do it again. He had to. It could not all be over, lost, gone forever. He remained who he was, who he had always been. Death could not take that from him. Rebirth could not. There had to be a possibility to get back up, back on his feet, back into the position of power and respect that corresponded him, and he wanted it. He wanted it now.

Clenching his teeth he rolled himself on his stomach. He forced his body into a position in which his legs hung over the side of the bed, his feet almost touching the ground. Groaning as he did, he pushed himself up with both arms. They trembled at little, no longer as strong as they used to be after so many days without any real use and with bad human food.

He reached for one of the bed posts and pulled himself up.

For a few, brief, precious moments he caught his breath, his heart racing, his body trembling, his legs insecure underneath him. Before they gave in and he fell, unable to catch himself, hands slipping off the polished wood, shoulder hitting the floor hard with a dull noise that resounded in his whole body, in his mind. The sound of defeat.

In battle the arrows would be next. The sound of silver tips burying themselves in his armor, his flesh. The sharp flashes of pain wherever they hit. A knife maybe, a sword to end his life. The scent of rain and blood, of smoke. Mud and dark, red puddles. Empty faces. Ravens circling overhead. Dull screams. Victory cheers in the distance. Life. Future.

He would never see those things again. He would not die in battle, honorably, proud. An elf. A lord. A hero. A king.  
>All he had left was...this.<p>

_This! Nothing!_ His hands turned into fists. His body shook. _Nothing!_

Were his legs had been there was nothing. No bones, no tissue, no muscles, no nerves. Just an idea of what had been there that vanished as soon as put to the test. They were as good as thin air. Worse. They were in the way. They were empty promise, lost hope, sheer mockery. A dead weight dragging him down, immobilizing him. For as much as he struggled he couldn't even seem to get back on the bed.

Reaching for something he could hold onto to push himself back up, his searching hands encountered the half-emptied bottle of wine he had left next to the bed the night before.

He took a deep sip. It tasted stale and sour.

Of course it did! How could it possibly ever not?!

With force he smashed the bottle against the nearest wall.

He would not see the stain anyway. Ever. His legs were lost. His eyes were lost. Everything was lost. He was trapped in this shell of a body. A prison. Condemned to spend eternity like this! Like this! This pathetic half-life! And that if – _if!_—he even survived that long. He probably wouldn't. Someone like him, like this, wouldn't, couldn't survive. Not in this world. Not in any.

He crawled, dragging his body with him and ignoring the protesting muscles of his arms. And finding the tray cluttered with medicine and healer's utensils Faramir's father had left, he threw it to the ground, smashing it all to pieces.

_Useless! All of it!_

It was a waste of time and effort. Wasted on him. No. No! This was no longer him. This disgusting, broken thing was not him. He was not like that!

His fingers closed around a vase, around a cup, around a book. He didn't think. Not truly. He acted. Needed to. And it felt good. It felt so damn good. He only hoped he was breaking something precious when he reached out for all the small and bigger things around him, as far as he could make it into the room.

He ripped out pages and tore fabric. The feeling and the sound alone oddly satisfying. His arms were still strong enough, powerful enough. They trembled and hurt, but they worked. Gracious Valar, they worked! Not like his legs. No. They were strong. The last part of him. Everything that remained. He felt that strength surge throw him, that power. He wasn't weak! _NO!  
><em>

He only realized he had gone too far when the door opened and closed and he felt Faramir's gaze on him. Silent. On him and what he had done.

He couldn't have cared less.

The Valar mocked him. That little rat mocked him. Faramir had tricked him. More than once. The man had brought him here. It was his fault. He was trapped. Trapped in this disgusting body. This bed. This room. This damn city, among humans!

"I hope something of this was valuable." He said, lifting his chin. "Or at least of personal value."

"Yes." The man replied in a toneless voice. "Don't move."

His boots crushed the shards on the floor as he approached. Curufinwë expected a blow, a kick, even a blade –Anything!

He did not expect the arms that enfolded him and held him tightly, nor what Faramir said next:

"They were. But they were only things. Are you hurt?"

And suddenly the elf felt guilty. Like an unruly child surprised at how its parents do not berate it, but are worried instead.

There would never be any punishment worse than this worry.

"Let me help you back to bed." Faramir said. "Careful with the shards. I will get a healer. I hope your legs—"

"My legs don't work! They will never again work! I am a cripple!" The elf cried out and at the same time tried both: to push the man away and to cling to him. "Kill me! End this! It has gone on long enough! I am useless! Worthless! Meaningless! I have lost everything! My legs, my eyes-"

"You still have your hands." The man said.

"_What_?!"

"Even without your legs and eyes you would still have your hands. And your brilliant mind." Faramir smiled against his hair. "Curufinwë. The skillful one. You know how to put those to use, do you not? I doubt just any elf could wear that name." As if he knew. "I will get the healer."


	20. Chapter 20

For once listening to someone else's advice Curufinwë brought his 'brilliant mind' to use. He learned all there was to learn about this new age he found himself in. Which meant he memorized, questioned and pieced together everything Faramir could tell him, about the elven realms and the doings of his people during his absence in particular.

It was a start. Though, sadly, there was little Faramir could tell him, really. What he knew, he seldom was certain about. Elves seemed to be more strange creatures of myth than a living, breathing, powerful people. This wasn't how it should be. Curufinwë knew. It was about time he had returned.

He would have to set things right again. It was plain.

Without his eyes he had to rely on Faramir to do the necessary research and reading for him and the man agreed, albeit uncommonly reluctantly. He remained 'busy' most of the time and the elf had to demand his time and attention.

It was then that Curufinwë learned what it was that kept his savior that busy: A woman.

Of course.

It stung, somehow. Even though he really shouldn't care. It was none of his business with whom that human got romantically involved. If it even was romantic. Probably not. It couldn't be. Why, the elf didn't know. He didn't know the man, and humans in general, enough to rule out any interest in females. However, it couldn't possibly be her that had caught his attention in that way, could it? She...who was she anyway? A delegate of some sort, possible enemy, possible ally.

Curufinwë really didn't need to know more about her. She was insignificant. She would be gone soon.

Soon. Right? Faramir would not marry her or keep her or...something. And even if he did, it wouldn't matter. He had not introduced them until now, he would not do so later. She didn't matter. Right?

Curufinwë growled when he realized he had remained awake half of the night, pondering that very question, insignificant and ridiculous as it was. It took a moment until he realized that he wasn't the only one still awake.

Faramir seldom rustled about and when he moved he moved rather silently for a human, which was pleasant, no doubt. It was something else that told the elf the man was still awake. Maybe the way he breathed, though, he always breathed slowly and carefully. It was a wonder he managed to get any air into his lungs at all. Maybe it was his warmth. He felt warmer when he slept. A heavy, warm presence in the room. Or his gaze. Sometimes the elf just knew it lingered on him. It didn't feel bad, though. Not too bad, at least._  
><em>

_The scent of candle smoke._

"You are sitting in the dark." The elf concluded.

"Saving candles." Faramir's tired voice replied.

"You are not that poor." Poor, apparently, yes, but not that poor.

"They may not be a luxury for elves, but for us humans they are. And I do not need them now. Nor do you." It sounded almost defensive.

"You were not working then." Something that almost came as a surprise."You were brooding." Curufinwë realized. "Brooding in the dark."

"Yes." Faramir replied only to correct himself. "No."

"About me?"

"Not everything on Arda always revolves around you." The man replied gruffly, but there was a certain undertone to his voice that seemed rather forgiving.

"That woman?"

"That woman. She has a name, you know. Though: Yes. I wondered about her."

"You...are...what..." The elf could have hit himself. Never had talking come that hard to him. "What is she to you? Are you...by any chance..."  
>Faramir laughed joylessly.<p>

"I cannot decide whether she is the one pulling the strings here or one of the strings made to bind us to an alley that will bleed us dry from the inside and sell us off to our enemies on the outside as soon as a chance arises." He sighed. "She may just be a pawn." And quietly, almost impossible to hear. "Like me."

"Are you?" The elf heard himself say as he pushed himself up and maneuvered his body closer to the edge of the bed. "A pawn?"

He moved carefully, painfully slowly. Yet, a few halting steps he could manage, leaning heavily against the windowsill where Faramir sat.

He had worked hard on forcing his body to obey him at least that much. And while frustrated that it took so long, he could not avoid being at least a little proud of the small progress he had made.

The man said nothing. Curufinwë could feel his gaze on him. Intent, lingering.

Without seeing him the elf reached out, trusting in his instincts and the human's reaction. Faramir caught his hand mid-air, squeezing it gently.

"Don't tell me you do not agree. You have no high opinion of me, either."

"I have no high opinion of any human." Curufinwë snorted.

"I do not mind. I promised to help you through this. And I tend to remain loyal to those I chose." Faramir had not let go of the elf's hand and Curufinwë could feel his breath on his fingers.

"That is dangerous, you know." He said.

"Why so?"

"It makes you an easy target."

Without expecting any reply the elf leaned in and sealed the man's lips with his. He had not intended to kiss Faramir ever again, certainly not planned to do so, but he had wanted to for a long time.

_And I will do it again. Maybe-_

A discrete coughing interrupted them and the elf cursed.

"Captain." Said someone that even Curufinwë had not heard entering the room or approaching them. "I lament to interrupt this, well, moment, but you called for us and they send me. Time is scarce. As always. Speak your wish and we shall see."

Faramir cleared his throat and immediately brought some distance between them.

"Spider." He addressed the stranger when he finally found his voice. "If I have your ear... I would like you to find Mithrandir for me."

"A wizard?" 'Spider' laughed. "Even we would not dare to take on such a formidable target. It would be...most unwise."

"No teasing today." Faramir said in a voice that somehow indicated that 'Spider' was a rather good-looking specimen for a human. Once could almost hear the blush. A minor detail that added to the elf's negative impression of the man whose profession had become rather clear after those few words. "I don't want you to rid me of him. I want you to find him. Can that be done?"

"It might." Spider replied. "You will hear from us. Unless...there is anything else?"

"Your secrets are mine." Faramir said.

"As yours are mine." The other man echoed and was gone.

"An assassin, Faramir?" Curufinwë immediately voiced his doubt.

"I did the guild a favor once, for all they know." The man explained, surprisingly willingly. "Since then we have been on good terms. If anyone should ask for my head they might get nothing but silence from these men. And we tend to do business every now and then."

That was nothing the elf would have expected. Caring, sweet and gentle Faramir whom he had taken for a wood-elf dealing with a guild of assassins?

"Not just to find people, I assume."

Faramir withdrew completely now, refilling a wine cup, from the sound of it.

"I have always prided myself on being a just man." He said, taking a sip. "Sometimes justice is not to be had by common means."

"But you are no coward." Or so the elf had thought up to this point. "They are. Weaklings. Whoever relies on their services even more so." Even the worst elves he could think of seldom had. Certain matters were better solved directly, personally at best. Sending someone else was wrong.

"Might." Faramir agreed. "But what they do and what me and my men do defending our home is not so different. We... sometimes find ourselves on common ground." Another sip. Was he nervous? Why? "I do not trust them, but I don't need to, either. I cannot discard the few opportunities of influence I have in this city."

_How stupid._ "They will betray you first opportunity."

This time Faramir did object: "No. They have their honor code as we have ours. They have made their vow. It cannot be broken. For those who deal in death only death can relief them." He sat back down. "Certainly, though, I make myself no illusions. The fact that they have sworn not to kill me doesn't mean they won't kill anyone close to me, should one of their contractors be satisfied with that as an alternative to my death. They aren't picky. The only way to extend the guild's... exception... to your family and friends is to become one of them. They are brothers. Or sisters, if you will. They do not assassinate their 'extended family'."

Curufinwë shook his head.

"But you are not an assassin." He decided.

"No? I have killed many times before." Came the prompt reply.

"You are not of those people who kill others for money. It is not in you." The man who had saved him, who took care of him, would not leave him and whom he had taken for a gentle wood-elf, this man could not be a ruthless, cowardly murderer. It did not suit him. It could not possibly be.

"I have killed though, for different reasons. For Gondor." Faramir said slowly. "You never notice it in the great tales. All the heroes seem to be murderers." He chuckled and the elf wondered if maybe he had had a little too much wine. "I do not like this part, but I have yet to see it done differently. Being a hero, I mean. It won't happen in our time. In yours, maybe, since you may have eternity. But not in mine. Mortality can be very limiting."

_If he thinks the tales were bad, he should have lived reality_. The elf thought. He had known the kings and princes and bastards of old, long before they had turned into myths. He himself was a legend, as far as he knew.

"Who is this Mithrandir you asked that man to find and why do you need to find him so badly?" Curufinwë decided asking.

"An old friend." Faramir replied. "My tutor, in fact. There is something... a jewel... I have to ask him—"

"Ask away." It was, maybe, more of an order than a suggestion. The idea of finally finding something substantial to occupy his mind with was just too tempting. "I am an elf. I am Noldorin. If you want to find anyone who knows about jewels—"

"No." Faramir interrupted him. "I apologize, but this... is not for you."


	21. Chapter 21

_**Good thing the elf can't see this...**_

* * *

><p>"They will not let me participate! They will not even allow me to listen! To be present! They have locked me out! Why? Why don't they let me join? Explain that to me!"<p>

Shagatah, Stargazer of the Khocari tribe walked back and forth in the little garden near her rooms. Her attendants followed her every move with their eyes and the soldiers avoided doing just that.

"Explain that to me, Faramir!" She demanded in a mixture of anger and desperation.

"In Gondor women seldom deal in high politics, in state affairs." Faramir tried. He did not watch her pace. It only made him feel even more dizzy than he already did. "At least not openly. And you still are a Stargazer." They didn't meddle in such politics either. They were not meant to be emissaries.

"I am no longer a Stargazer." The woman hissed. She reminded him of a small, wounded animal for a moment. Though, small, by any means, she was not. "Or where are my people? You cannot be a herder without a herd! That is ridiculous!"

"When you return to your tribe you will have your people to look after once more." He attempted to reason with her and failed miserably.

"But I will not return! I did not come here to ever return!" She cried out, before stopping herself.

Faramir lifted his hands in what he hoped to be a calming gesture.

Her outburst didn't come as a complete surprise to him. He had suspected as much. What little knowledge he had about her people and her role amidst them had helped him immensely in understanding her situation better. He had managed to see through some of her charades. This particular detail, at least, he had seen coming. That helped immensely in remaining calm.

"Tell me." He said, but she didn't look at him. From the corner of her eye she looked at her attendants.

Faramir understood and stepped closer, limiting their chances to overhear them.

"Is there any possibility for us to speak in private?" He asked her.

"Tonight." She replied in a low voice. "Come to me after nightfall. They will not be there."

"Tell me how I can help you. If it is in my power, I will." He promised her.

"Marry me." Shagatah said, joking bitterly. "Make me your wife and tell everyone you want me to stay at your side and in Gondor and be treated with respect and honor. Tell my people and yours. Give me a future! I will die if no one does."

Not everything was always that simple. She knew it, too.

"You know that is not possible." He said aloud what both of them thought.

"Oh, of course. Everything is simple." She said and waved her delicate hands in a mock gesture of haughtiness. "You send someone to talk to the man's mother and she agrees and then you live together. Or a sister, if the mother isn't available. Meleem is a very talented negotiator."

"I have a brother?" Faramir suggested with a chuckle.

Shagatah's eyes gleamed. "No. Men don't deal well in such things. They ruin everything."

Faramir laughed. "Well, I would not suggest you talk to Nana, who raised my brother and me. She is...suspicious... of foreigners."

"Everyone is." Shagatah huffed. "I am not a Variag. I never was. I was a Stargazer. I am different. Your people should see." She smiled warmly at him. "You do." Her hand was heavy on his chest, over his heart. "You are different. A wise and good man." She shrugged. "And I am as always a terrible host."

"You are doing beautifully, considering the circumstances." He assured her.

"You think me beautiful?"

"Well, yes, that too, but that..." Faramir coughed. "I didn't mean to offend. I know Gondorian beauty standards probably do not translate to your people and—"

"But your standards are not Gondorian." Shagatah interrupted him.

"I..."

"My people believe the living body is but a prison. A shell. A tool and weapon. For a short moment." Her fingers traced a circle on his chest. "What really matters is the wandering spirit, wandering like we do in our country and beyond, that inhabits the body for a while. And some of those spirits are old, very old..." Her eyes seemed to have grown vacant for a moment. "Yours is very old. Very wise..." She reached out and placed her free hand against his cheek. "But very weary, too."

Faramir shook his head.

"The elves believe something similar." He offered. "Many of my people—"

"But you do not?" Shagatah concluded.

"It is the body that makes us weary and its reactions that lead us to certain decisions, that forms our character and decides our chances. We cannot be separated from it and still exist in the same way. It is not possible. Without our body we could not be the same person. It is no prison. It is us. Maybe all there is for us humans..." Her closeness had automatically made him lower his voice. "It is different for elves, I think. They are...special."

"Have you ever met any elves and proven this to be true?" She asked, cocking her head as she looked up at him.

"I..." Faramir began and decided against it. "No."

"Maybe their spirits are closer to the surface, more visible, more obvious, easier to...reach. They have eternity, in so many ways, if the stories are true. Maybe, if I knew—if I _had_ an elf, maybe even one that is eager to leave his earthly shell behind and willing to cooperate, his spirit could be separated from his body and we could learn-"

"They are creatures of myth, Shagatah. They may as well not exist at all." Faramir felt the sudden need to interrupt her.

"That is not what you really believe. What you really know." She smiled, a thin-lipped, betrayed smile. "If I ever find an elf, I will try to learn what I can. I know you do not agree. That saddens me. But I will be doing it for you, too." She sighed. "Your body is weak. Weaker than you deserve."

"I have no complaints." He opted to reply lightly. "It is a good body. It allows me to think clearly, to see and speak, to navigate the wilds of Ithilien without stumbling every few steps, to fight, to...love."

"And yet it is wasting away even as we speak."

"Such is the nature of mortal creatures."

She lifted her hands as if to beseech him and let them fall down again. "Is there not more to it? Is that all there ever will be? Do we not have the blessing of some god, or some wisdom at least, that can give us... more?"

"We already have much." Faramir said tiredly. His head hadn't stopped throbbing since morning and he was not in the mood for long, philosophic discussions of the kind he otherwise would have loved to participate in. "It all depends on what we make of the time we are given."

"And you will make the best of the time you have been given, yes? I am sure. I have a proposal to make, if you don't mind."

Sometimes it was too easy with her. "I do not know yet. Tell me."

"There is a feast. The people of Rohan hold it. I understand you helped them to gain permission to do so. They are a interesting people and they know of fine horses, like we do. I would like to attend and I would like you to take me... there."

Faramir shook his head slowly. He regretted having to tell her this, but: "I cannot do that."

"Why not?" She naturally wanted to know. "It is you who made it possible in the first place. They will honor that, no?"

"I have not been invited and... there are people who would not take kindly to me being there." He lowered his gaze. "It is an important feast for the Rohirim. It is their one, great week. A celebration of their culture and heritage amidst strangers and so far from home. Families meet and old friends. Some even come from Rohan to visit. It is...very personal... for many of them." It was true. Faramir understood. Better than most of the people he had secretly supported against his father's wishes for so long would have given him credit for. "I would be viewed as an intruder at best. At worst they would see in me my father's spy or an overseer." He frowned. "I know someone you could talk to if you want to attend alone. I believe you would receive a warmer welcome without me at your side." He forced a smile. "Horses is the way to go. Freedom and the untamed wilds, travels. They will relate to you better than our Gondorian nobles could. And bore you less." It certainly was the case for him, whenever the rare opportunity arose.

"Nothing here bores me, Faramir." Shagatah replied, mirroring his smile. "I told you, I am no Stargazer here... I am free. Free to pursue happiness wherever it leads and with whom I desire." She paused, then continued in an even lower voice: "I have never had a man. Any man. It is forbidden for a Stargazer, you know that. It breaks her magic. It seals her fate. It destroys her and her tribe. Even if she kept it a secret, she could conceive a child. That child would be very powerful. It would be born to rule, to lead and to judge and ultimately to destroy. It would bring doom to all her people. That is what the stars say. It is the most dangerous thing. It is not done. It is forbidden." Her lips almost touched his. "I desire you."


	22. Chapter 22

Tired and just about to get very sick. That was how Faramir felt when he closed the heavy doors leading to his mother's favorite garden behind him and stepped into the soft drizzle. His hair was already wet and his cloak, uncommonly thick for summer, warded off the creeping moisture well enough.

The cold, grey light of morning flooded the garden and turned it into some eery, otherworldly place where only ghosts walked freely and everything alive was hidden behind a dusky veil. Or an intruder.

Had he not come to this place at this very time of day countless mornings before, he might have been convinced he was walking in a dream or having another of his visions.

He believed himself alone and took a deep, shuddering breath.

Shagatah had not been too wrong. At times his body was weak. His mind, too. But that was only normal, was it not?

Even among elves absolute perfection could not be found, or so Faramir assumed. And that not just after meeting Curufinwë. Neither would he have wanted it, absolute perfection for himself, given the chance.

He leaned heavily against the garden's outer wall and closed his eyes, face turned towards the sky. Even though she remained a stranger to him, even in this intimate place that had served her as a refuge countless times, he understood why the lady Finduilas had liked this garden so much. It offered a silent, cold comfort. It wasn't tranquil, but as close as it could get in times of war. Soothing, like the rain running over his face.

It was only then that he noticed the hunched shape, almost entirely hidden from view in the dark blue shadows near the small pond in a corner of the garden.

He wiped his face with both hands and approached cautiously.

It didn't take him long to recognize the figure: the lifted chin, the slight tilt of the head, the way his shoulders straightened immediately. The dark elf was stunningly beautiful bathed in twilight.

"You should not be out here." Faramir said the first sane thing that came to his mind. "How did you even make it this far? Your legs—"

"You didn't come back." Curufinwë said quietly and more softly than Faramir had ever heard his voice. "You didn't return all night. You said you would. There was something I asked you to read for me. I waited."

Faramir could already guess the rest: "And then you grew tired of waiting."

"Yes." The elf said simply.

"You were...worried? For me?" There was a small chance. Though, Faramir felt rather silly for asking and he might not have, had the elf not seemed so oddly dejected. At the very least the question would make him laugh.

"I." The elf replied falteringly. "Was."

Faramir carefully sat down on the wet stone next to him.

"I am glad." He admitted. To see that someone cared –in truth cared, even if it was mostly for reasons of self-preservation and a lack of eyesight.

In any case, he doubted the elf would admit something like that as lightly as others had on occasion declared themselves to him. They tended to see his father in him and easy prey, too. Usually they did not approach Boromir in the same manner, for one because he was all in all more intimidating and the other because he might actually take them up on their more improper offers. It probably seemed safer to try with him. They didn't know him. At least Curufinwë did, if only a little.

And the elf quite obviously didn't care to pretend. He didn't play nice. He probably didn't even know how.

Yes, Faramir was glad.

"So you are." The elf replied. He sounded exhausted, mellow, almost.

"Are you glad?" Faramir ventured. "That you found me, I mean? Is there any possibility that you—"

He didn't finish his question. There was no need to. The elf's hands on both sides of his face silenced him. He had reached out as certain as though he could see him.

"Do not ever leave like this again." He ordered, his hands keeping Faramir's face captive between them. "Do not ever."

Faramir laid his hands on top of Curufinwë's and couldn't quite hide the stupid smile from tugging at the corners of his mouth. The elf seemed to always find him at a disadvantage and yet...

"There is blood on your hands."

"A lot." Curufinwë replied.

"No. There is blood on your hands right now. Did you hurt yourself?" He gathered the elf's hands in his and started inspecting them.

"I fell." Came the hesitant reply. "It's nothing. I will clean it later – What are you doing? You will not use murky pond-water on my open wounds!"

Faramir chuckled. "It's fine. I promise. There is a basin a little higher up, behind that wall. See? It catches the rain and we save it there for the dry season in summer. It is usually very clean."

He reached out, but before his fingers even disturbed the water's surface the elf grasped his arm.

"Don't." He warned. "I cannot see it, but there is a smell..."

"A smell?" Faramir frowned.

The water looked perfectly fine to him, clean and clear as always. He wanted to object, but while he was still looking at it the water began to change. The clear stream trickling into the pond suddenly turned black and red. He didn't need to smell it to tell something was wrong.

"What on Arda..."

"Faramir?!" A booming voice called out from the main entrance of the garden.

"My brother?" Faramir whispered unbelieving. _He never gets up that early. What is he doing here? _Andwhat if he saw the elf? "You have to leave." He urged Curufinwë. "I mean. No. Can you? Can you make it back? Alone? If not I will...maybe I can distract him and—"

The elf lifted one hand and snorted, then painfully slowly forced his body to stand. He leaned heavily on a staff he had apparently brought for that very purpose and nodded his head in Boromir's direction as though to shoo Faramir off.

"I'm..." the man began. "I am sorry. I will make this up to you. I promise."

"You better." Curufinwë growled.

Faramir watched him leave through one of the side doors and fought the urge to immediately follow him. Not because he feared the elf was too weak to make it back alone—he was a warrior after all and it still showed-, but because he couldn't stand watching him go.

He didn't know exactly why he cared for the elf the way he did. By all means and all logic he should not have. Curufinwë had, by the Valar, given him very little reason to. He was not the most lovable creature on Arda. Yet, they had been through much together, considering they had only just met. And he was an elf. Faramir could not deny his attraction to impossibly old, immortal and pointy-eared.

Oh, he could just imagine Boromir's remarks on that particular detail! It had been bad enough when he, in his youthful stupidity, had confided to his brother that he liked men, preferably a little older than himself.

Youthful. In truth, it hadn't been so long ago. Before that it hadn't been that... easy.

It was probably, hopefully, very different for elves. They lived too long and saw too much to consider falling in love with or just desiring someone others might not approve of a shameful curiosity._  
><em>

_Damn, sweet mercy, I must appear a child to him, not a grown man!_

And he was, in terms of years. Reason, however, seemed to desert him whenever it came to his elf. Maybe it was some kind of old magic that enthralled humans in general, or it was just him and this elf in particular. Either way, he would have to show more self-restraint in the future, for his own good.

He straightened his tunic and pulled his cloak closer, before answering his brother's call.

"Boromir? Why are you-"

One look, one wrinkle of the nose, one scratch of the beard: "You just met a lover."

"I." Faramir almost choked on his own breath, even before he could fully process his brother's frank declaration and recognize it as the convenient excuse it offered. "Pardon me. What?"

Boromir grinned sagely, looking very smug underneath layers of grime and dirt.

"You were out here, hiding in the shadows, meeting a lover." He declared. "Look at you!"

"I, well, yes. You know..." Faramir cleared his throat. "I didn't know you were out on patrol. Did you just return? Is that why you were looking for me? Had I known-"

"I went out riding." Boromir corrected him, making him frown in disbelief.

"This early? And looking as though just returning from battle?"

"Old clothes. Dirty them first. Saves the new ones for later. Don't they teach you rangers anything useful?"

There was something hidden behind that joking tone, Faramir knew. But he also knew there was no way to find out should he insist.

"You managed to hide them from Nana's minions?" He opted for instead.

Boromir's grin, however, disappeared nonetheless.

"Yes." He said curtly. "I need to talk to you. That is why I'm here. It's important. No time for witty remarks. Very important, little brother. I... I don't know how to begin and how to explain this to you, but what father is doing...what he promises this Variag in return for so little." He shook his head. "I know now why he doesn't want you to be there when they talk about this. This is about you. More than anyone. What he—"

"How do you know? Did he tell you?"

"I listened in. Father expects you to try, not me. No one pays attention to what I do. That's how I overheard-" He interrupted himself, staring wide-eyed at the small pond and its dark water. "What happened here?" He whispered.

"It came down with the water from the basin." Faramir offered what little explanation he had.

"Probably something fell in and died in there. I have no idea how, but those critters manage. Well." Boromir shrugged. "You are the squirrel." He cupped his hands on top of his knee and gave Faramir a leg-up. "Bit short, even for a squirrel, though."

Perched on top of the wall surrounding the basin Faramir looked down on his older brother and stuck out his tongue like he had done when they had been boys, stealing apples from behind impossibly high walls that had turned out to reach only to their hips now that they were, for the most part, grown-up.

He had been smaller than Boromir once, but he had been younger, too. Granted, he was still younger, but there was little difference left in height between them.

They had turned our rather similar in appearance, if not so much in character. Boromir was little broader all in all, of course, but-  
>Faramir's thoughts came to an abrupt halt.<p>

"No animal." He breathed.

"What?" His brother called out from below.

"That is no animal!" Faramir screamed, jumping into the basin without thinking twice.

He didn't care how dirty it was, nor for the nausea seeing it alone caused him, and he nearly stumbled as he waded through the knee-deep water.

Hastily at first, but then carefully and full of fear he pulled the limp body in his arms. Small, golden body in a sea of blood. Black hair floating on the surface like tendrils, still alive. And a heavy chain, connecting nose and ear, ripped apart in the middle.

"No...No...This cannot be..."

His hands shook. He had seen death, had seen it many times and yet it still made the blood in his veins turn to ice, especially when it were the young and more innocent he saw dying. Children, women, friends. He brushed wet hair out of the cold face staring up at him with unseeing eyes.

"No." He heard himself repeat, his voice dying in his throat. An iron fist closed around his chest, his heart and lungs, making it near impossible to breathe, to live.

He breathed trough his mouth and closed his eyes against the rain. Only the rain, he told himself.

_I didn't want that. I never wanted that!_

He had just seen her. He had just left her not so long ago. With his eyes closed he could almost see her again, somewhere in the distance.

She had laughed. She had seemed so carefree without her constant companions watching over her, finally being able to talk and move freely without the knowledge of being watched and the fear of being overheard. She had been downright clumsy, giddy, all bright eyes and hands and he had seen in her so much of the child she had never been allowed to be. And now, so suddenly, there was nothing left he could do. Nothing at all. Only...

He untied his cloak and tenderly wrapped it around her naked body in his arms, gathered her closer.

"You were right." He whispered against her forehead. "Please forgive me. I should have listened. You were right."

He hadn't noticed when the rain had stopped and the sky cleared up.

With Shagatah's dead body in his arms he climbed back on top of the wall.

"I need your help." He called out to his brother, but Boromir was nowhere in sight. Instead a group of soldiers from the citadel guard had gathered near the pond, one of them pointing at him, shouting:

"That's the one we're here for!"

"But that's the lord Faramir!" Another recognized him.

"And a murderer nonetheless!" The other bellowed. Faramir knew him. He had become captain of the guard when he himself had been named captain of the Ithilien rangers. They were equals in rank, more or less. His father trusted this man almost as much as he trusted Boromir. "Get down there!" That very same man ordered him. "Get him down there!" He ordered his men.

"I didn't kill her." Faramir objected sharply.

He held Shagatah's body closer when suddenly several arrows were aimed at them, deep down knowing full well that he could not shield her from any harm. Not anymore.

"Of course you didn't. No murderer ever did it the deed. They're all innocent. Maybe I should inform you that someone saw you. We were told to look for you here, trying to get rid of the corpse. And there you are. Doing just that. Coincidence."

"I came here and found her. I can—" He noticed movement in the shadows near one of the side doors. Boromir looked at him one last time, before he turned away and closed the door behind him. _Not prove it._


	23. Chapter 23

_**Thank you again for your reviews!**_

_**This time with special thanks to Panther Fire and RealAbsynthe.  
><strong>_

_**I do not try to mimic Tolkien's style. It's his, not mine and it would sound silly if I tried. I do, however, try to create a certain atmosphere and if you feel like in another world and are hooked by this story I think I might be doing something right. You are making me very happy. Thank you! **_

* * *

><p>No matter how furiously his mind worked on his way back to his chamber, Faramir could not come up with any way to tell the elf more elegantly:<p>

"You have to leave."

He cringed at his own words and didn't wait for Curufinwë to reply. He knew that if he would give the elf the opportunity to he would never get him to obey for even only this once.

"You will leave this evening, after nightfall. I will have my horse prepared for you. He knows the way and people know him. He will be eyes and legs for you. And more. I will give you this." Faramir leaned over his desk and hastily scribbled a note, the contents of which he had already formulated while standing at attention, awaiting his father's verdict, and pressed it into the elf's hand. "You will ride to my men in Ithilien and stay there. Once they read this they will know what to do."

"This is illegible." Curufinwë commented drily, tracing the scratch marks his quill had left on the soft paper with his fingertips.

"My men know how to read it." Faramir brushed some unruly strands of hair out of his face and took a deep breath, before allowing himself to relax a little and smile tentatively. Maybe this wouldn't be as hard as he had expected it to be? "And should they cause you any difficulties... You know how to handle a small battalion, don't you?"

Curufinwë snorted and tossed the paper away.

"I will not go." He said. "Even less so with a letter in hand that could very well be telling its reader: 'Kill he who carries me.' I am not stupid. I will not leave."

Or maybe not. It couldn't possibly have been that easy.

"You will have to." Faramir pointed out.

"You cannot make me." Came the prompt reply.

"I can and I will."

It wasn't an empty threat at all. The elf, somewhere deep down at least, had to recognize that and it, obviously, did not please him at all.

"I am not a servant. Nor one of your hedge soldiers. You will _not_ order me!"

"You are in my care, you are under my protection and you are my responsibility." Faramir thought he knew how to handle anger directed at him. He had believed himself capable of handling even this particular elf's temper. "Please. I need you to leave."

"No."

Maybe he had been wrong.

"I am trying to protect you!"

"From _what_?! I have no enemies here!" The elf screamed.

"But I do! And you are with me!" Faramir screamed right back, before reining himself in. "And that is precisely the problem. You have no enemies here, for all we know, and neither any friends. All anyone can possibly know about you is that you are an elf and that you belong to me. Both of these things do not place you in any position to—"

"I do not _belong_ to you, petty human!"

"No! No." Faramir groaned. "I... I didn't mean... I didn't mean it that way." _Damn it!_ "It was a poor choice of words. What I meant to say was that..." He tried again. "Who you are is defined by who you are with, here at court. That is how Gondor works, sadly, for the most part, and how people will view you."

The elf growled, low in his throat. "Others do not define who you are." He said. "Your deeds do. You choose who you are. Others have no say in that. Not among elves."

Faramir picked up his note the elf had tossed way and handed it back to him.

"Is that so?" He asked. "But isn't a king's son automatically seen fit to rule? Among elves as well as among humans?"

"That depends on the son." Curufinwë maintained.

"What about sons then who dutifully follow their father's lead, his orders and advice. Is it not he who determines who they are? And who they might become? Is it not he who decides their chances? Limits and broadens them alike? Is it not he who forges their fate?"

"No." Curt and hostile.

He should have expected as much and he knew he had almost gone too far. He would have to tread more carefully in the future. If there was to be a future.

"In Gondor, here at court, you need the support of others. You need them to hold your back, because behind every corner someone might wait for you with a meticulously sharpened knife, in all the shapes they come." And actual knives were the least to worry about. "It is dangerous here, more so than on the battlefield, I sometimes think. It is less...obvious." Faramir briefly wondered at how hard it turned out to put into words what had almost become second nature to him. "Should anyone come for me, for whatever reason, that would place you in the line of fire. It is all you are. Not to me. To everyone else. I just realized that... you would have no one else to turn to."

"So I am stripped of my personhood because I have neglected to socialize with your... human friends?" The elf arrived at his own conclusion.

"No! I didn't mean—"

"It was you who brought me here."

"I...Yes. Sometimes I forget Minas Tirith is not, and maybe never has been, the safe haven I saw in her as a child... and as a young man, at least for some time." Faramir sighed, defeated. "And I did not know where else to take you. I know many healers, here and there, and they have their talents, that's for sure. But none of them I would have trusted with caring for an elf. For you. I had to bring you here. It was the only good choice...well, better choice, at least."

"And you kept me locked up in this tiny chamber! What did you expect?"

_Locked up?!_ Faramir couldn't believe his ears. "You were too weak to get up. You could barely move. I never locked you up! The door was always open! I listened to all of your requests and tried my best to- You are not my prisoner, how could you possibly feel like one?"

Curufinwë would have looked directly at him, had he still had his eyes. It would have been a penetrating, frightening gaze, able to make hardened warriors fall to their knees.

"You could have asked me if you should bring others to introduce them to me. You should, in fact, have informed your steward of my presence here the instant we arrived. Instead of making me your personal, little secret. Surely he would have known how to treat a guest like me properly."

_Oh, that he would._ Faramir had little doubt. _And all the other courtiers and captains with him. Even Boromir would have agreed._

"You are an elf, Curufinwë! People here like to decorate themselves with elvish names and distinguish themselves by their limited knowledge of the elvish tongue. They like to claim some elvish blood in their family-line somewhere. But that does not mean an actual elf would be welcome among them. Quite the contrary! He—you would be a threat. You would not be safe." Faramir shook his head. "Magic has been corrupted in this age." He tried to explain. "Maybe it has always been to a certain extent and it only shows more, now that it has become so rare we are forced to notice it whenever we come across it and in times of war where it is often used against us. But there is great evil in most of the magic you will find today. And even creatures so alienated from the old ways like us humans still perceive this evil and instinctively fear it. Rightfully so. Most of us can no longer differentiate between what may yet be of great good and what is already lost to us and a real danger." The Valar knew, he seldom could. 'Wizard pupil', they had called him on occasion. And he had been able to learn only so little. "The only reason we are not ordered to shoot your kin on sight is because people generally tend to assume you are nothing but legend. I cannot guarantee for even my...Lord Steward's reaction." Faramir felt his stomach churn at the thought. "And I would rather not risk it. Not now."

"I am a king!" The elf bellowed and even curled into the corner of Faramir's bed he looked every bit like one.

"Not here." Faramir had to tell him, nonetheless. Apparently too silently, though, for the elf to hear. "No longer." Or too easy for him to ignore.

"A king! That has to count for something, even among your primitive people. You treat those Khand envoys rather well from what I've seen. And they truly are your enemies. You have been and are at war with their people! I, on the other hand, am not. _But _I may be of great value to whoever welcomes me and—"

"She is dead." Faramir interrupted him.

"Who?"

"Shagatah. One of 'those Khand envoys'. Is dead. She was murdered." As unreal as saying it felt. "I... just held her corpse... in my arms..." He opened his arms as though still holding her. If he looked at them now he could still see her, still feel her. "Like that...She..." Faramir swallowed hard. He would not cry. He was no child. He knew death, knew it well enough. "They think I killed her."

In the cold light of day that meant: Leave from his service as captain of the Ithilien Rangers until further notice and the explicit prohibition to leave Minas Tirith, coming with the unspoken 'suggestion' not to leave the citadel either.

Nothing else. Not yet.

As long as the corpse had not been properly examined nothing could be said conclusively. No one had witnessed the murder itself and no murder weapon had been found. No one could even be sure it _was_ a murder. Though, Faramir did not doubt it and, almost ironically, the Guard Captain did not doubt it either. Their reasons differed, naturally.

No, officially he had not yet been branded her murderer.

Suspicion, however, was strong. All eyes were on him and they would watch his every step.

_They._ How well he knew these eyes. The citadel guards and their captain, as well as his own father and his closest advisors and some, some in the shadows that had no name.

Denethor had made it abundantly clear that he was not convinced of his son's innocence and that, as a result, he would not protect him. Not that Faramir would have hoped for such a protection. Denethor was a just man. The kind of man he himself strove to be. He would not coddle his sons and place them above the law, especially if in doing so he endangered all of Gondor. Not even Boromir, if ever need be.

"Did you kill her?" Curufinwë asked bluntly.

"What?! _No!_"

The elf was unimpressed. "She was sweet. And you are a grown man among your people. You surely are aware of how sweetness works." He said. "Once it reaches a certain point it turns bitter."

"Are you suggesting I wanted her dead? Because..._of what_?! Because she...bothered me? Because she became _inconvenient_? Is that it? Is that what you think about me? Is that the man you take me for?" Maybe 'man' was the point here, rather than some personal flaw, Faramir hoped. "Would you have made the same accusation if I were an elf?"

"All I am saying is that I understand." Was what Curufinwë replied.

"You understand nothing."

"No." The elf made a rude gesture. "No, because all of this is ridiculous. I never imagined someone who grew up among such a...uncivilized people like you might be so easily spooked. By the death of _one_ woman! Humans die all the time. And all on their own. It's only natural. One would expect you had gotten used to it. That woman clearly was no-"

"She has a name!" Faramir protested. _And she did not die on her own._ "Her name is...was... Shagatah. She-"

"Names. Useless. For all I gathered humans all have the same names, anyway. What does it matter?"

_What does it matter?! _"She was my friend." Faramir heard himself say. _She trusted me. She told me why she had asked Meleem to take her with him to Gondor. She confided in me. She—No. No! Her death was _no _accident. She wanted to live. And she was careful._

"Friend? Is that what you call it?" The elf questioned immediately, shattering whatever had remained of Faramir's goodwill and patience.

"How can you be so disrespectful? She just died, for the Valar's sake! She died!"

"She is nothing to me." Curufinwë pointed out.

"And everything to many others!" _I will find her murderer. I will find whoever did this and why. And I _will _make them pay_. "Maybe you should look around you every once in a while and you would see that your life is not the only one that—"

The elf silenced him with a gesture Faramir knew too well to ignore. Out in the wilds it meant danger. No time to doubt. No time to question. Silence.

"We are about to get company." Curufinwë said in a low voice and Faramir finally heard the steps, too.

His eyes narrowed and he listened carefully.

The steps stopped in front of his door and a couple of very different sounds followed. Shuffling, scratching, clicking. No knock. Of course not.

Faramir reached for the first weapon he could find and drew it. He opened the door abruptly and placed the tip of his sword against the would-be intruder's neck.

"What business do you have with me and what makes you think that forcing the lock of my door might make it any easier?"

The man, a soldier of Gondor as Faramir recognized immediately by his uniform, fell backwards and skidded as far away as he could, before noticing the weapon pointed at him and freezing on the spot.

"I...ah...they..._My lord_!" He stuttered, deadly pale, fumbling with his hands and trying in vain to hide that his whole body trembled.

Faramir lifted his sword away a little, allowing the frightened man some room.

"Calm yourself." He told him, trying to mask the burning anger he felt in that very moment. Not just for the man, the elf or anyone in particular, but for everyone everywhere. "You couldn't cut a piece of butter with this blade if you wanted to." It was good blade, of course, but old and often neglected. And even though it had proven its worth just recently and apparently still inspired fear and respect, Faramir secretly waited for the day it would break and crumble in his very hands. As sharp and polished as the steel appeared on the outside, he didn't have to be a smith to recognize that on the inside the blade was brittle and sharp, as sharp as could be, it no longer was. "I doubt it would even scratch your skin much. Be wary, though, if you ever find one of my arrows aimed at you, or my knife. Now speak. And speak swiftly. Or I might reconsider."

The man stared at him, mouth open, gasping for breath, eyes wide. He resembled a frightened animal, rather than a proud soldier and protector of Gondor.

The citadel guards were like that, it was commonly said. All they were good for was looking the part. They failed miserably when it came down to actually doing their duty. Even Faramir held them in little regard. The fact that Shagatah had been brutally murdered right under their eyes-

Faramir clenched his fists. No, he would not allow this to cloud his judgment. Not any more than it already did.

"Stand up, soldier!" He ordered. Sometimes this certain tone came easily to him. More easily than he liked. "And stand up straight. You are talking to a captain of Gondor. Explain yourself!"

Hastily the man struggled to his feet and tried his best to stand at attention. His posture was convincing enough and Faramir remembered his face, too.

"I have orders, my lord...ca...captain!" He flushed and stared determinedly at some fixed point behind Faramir's back. "To search your quarters, my lord."

"In my absence, no doubt."

"Ye...yes, my lord."

An honesty Faramir would not have expected. He sheathed his sword and shook off the doubt and suspicion that started creeping into his mind.

"I suppose there is no written order you could show to me to prove this claim?"

"No." The solder all but whispered.

"Then I suggest you leave." That would be easy enough. Maybe he could spare himself at least some trouble – for a while. And 'a while' was all he needed. Just a few moments more to convince Curufinwë to leave. Or force him to, even though he greatly disliked the very idea.

The man didn't move.

"Dismissed, soldier."

This did the trick, but Faramir's victory was short lived.

"Harassing my man, I see. I expected as much." The Guard Captain's voice echoed through the hallway. "He does not need any documents if I am here to confirm it, does he? I always considered them a waste of ink and paper. And you never know what happens to them on the way."

Faramir stepped out fully into the hallway, closed the door behind him and bit his tongue, swallowing his mounting frustration before facing the man with a perfectly bland expression.

"I expect you can explain this?"

"Explanations is exactly what we are here for. Don't you think?" The man smiled, an empty smile. "Why is it that I always find_ you_ murdering those very few people who offer Gondor their support? Who offer peace?" His voice turned harder and angrier with every step he took and every letter he pronounced. "Do you not want it?! Do you not want to end these endless, useless skirmishes at our borders and meaningless deaths when we have real enemies to fight?! Do you not want victory?!"

Faramir almost backed away a little.

"I remember the last time I found you, boy." The man spat. "Over the body of a man who had come to offer us the peace we yearned for and are yearning for still- _by your fault!_" By what Faramir assumed to be mere reflex he grabbed the hilt of his sword. He did not fully draw it, only a few inches, and his hand moved away soon after. Faramir's fingers, however, tightened around the hilt of his own weapon and his eyes never left the man.

"'I didn't do it.' You whined." The Guard Captain continued, oblivious of the fact that a little less self-control from Faramir's part might have cost him his hand- or his life- already. "The same as _now_. I am sick of hearing it! I am sick of others believing it! You have hidden behind your father's back long enough. This time will be different." He had lifted his fist as though to strike Faramir and came uncomfortably close.

_That is a lie!_ Faramir knew. And he did not flinch. He remembered the day the man spoke of clearly. More clearly than he would ever have liked. He would never be able to forget it. And he had never denied what he had done. Just why he had done it, very few people knew. Most others would not have believed it anyway.

"Be careful, captain. I am your equal, as well as the son of your lord. I will not stand by and let you accuse me falsely. I did not kill Shagatah and you weren't even _in _Minas Tirith those many years ago."

"Many years ago, now, is it?" The man chocked on his laugh. "I was there. I saw it. I know what you did and I know that you are a coward. Nothing else!" His voice shook and he averted his eyes. "You don't sleep very well, do you? Maybe your memory is deceiving you, _boy_."

_No._ "How dare—"

"Captain!" _Boromir._ "Capt...ain_s_." Faramir's brother bowed lightly and frowned. "Is there a real good reason why you are upsetting the chamber maids so? One just bumped into me as though she were fleeing a battlefield. I think I can see now why."

"He refuses entrance to his chambers. Which we-"

"Naturally. _Lord _Faramir is a very private man, shouldn't you have noticed. And you are barely his equal and far from being a superior in the position to demand such a thing."

"I have direct orders from your father!" The Captain of the Citadel Guards protested.

"And you are not the right person to execute them." Boromir replied.

"I—"

"I will do it. As Captain General of Gondor that task should be mine. I am his superior."

"You are his brother!" The man burst out.

"And have you ever seen me treat him – as a soldier and one of Gondor's captains- differently for that reason?" Boromir questioned.

"No..." The Guard Captain had to admit. "But..."

"I will go and find some trustworthy men of suitable rank to bear witness. If that would comfort you." Boromir offered.

"Go?! Now that he knows and undoubtedly will get rid of—"

"Well, then we can forget about this nonsense and get back to whatever we were doing before."

It was a sensible solution, wasn't it? In the way Faramir knew his brother reasoned, at least. A way that tended to greatly irritate those that weren't used to it, but oftentimes proved rather efficient if things needed to get done- or not done, in his case.

"No! I demand this—" The Guard Captain interrupted himself. He apparently remembered his limits again."The Lord Steward's orders must be acted upon. I will find suitable men immediately." He stopped and turned to look at the soldier he had sent to break into Faramir's chamber. "Watch his door. Make sure nothing and no one leaves until we return."

Then he left.

He didn't see that it only took a wave of the hand from Boromir to make the soldier nod and leave as well. He would probably wait at the end of the corridor, but it allowed them the privacy they needed.

Boromir sighed. "I'm...sorry, little brother. I tried. I thought he would—"

"Why are you here? Boromir?"

"Every time Nana called me by my given name I knew something bad was in store for me. Whatever I-"

"You left. You were the only witness to me finding Shagatah already dead and you left. You saw what happened! Don't tell me you had no idea!"

"And I came back!"

"I can see that." Faramir crossed his arms in front of his chest. "Why?"

"It is..." Boromir took a deep breath. "Something I overheard before. It made sense. Suddenly. And... I could not have intervened now and defended and warned you if they had thought me an accomplice."

"You saved your own hide. Boromir. _That _is what you did."

"No!" Faramir would have expected him to be offended or even angry, but not desperate. No, not desperate. "This is not about me, little brother! You need all the help you can get. I could not help you if I ended up in a cell next to you, right? I thought... it seemed like a good idea at the moment." He rubbed his face with both hands, before he continued. "The Variag said you wouldn't recognize him- his 'pattern', whatever that means- and that you have no idea of what will happen." Which was true."The woman, Shagatah. She said she would rather plunge a knife into her own heart than fail." He stopped to look Faramir in the eye. "And they talked about you. In our language. Flawlessly. To one of our guards." He lifted his arms helplessly, frustrated. "I approached them and they fell silent. When they greeted me their accents had returned. Miraculously." He grimaced.

Faramir had noted something very similar while talking to Shagatah. After a while her accent had changed and finally disappeared almost altogether. He had attributed it to her getting re-accustomed to a foreign language she spoke rather well, but had not actively used for a long time. He had considered it rather charming.

But Boromir had more to say: "You must get rid of this blade before anyone else can find it. I know it's in there somewhere."

"I didn't—" Faramir was about to protest.

"Yes, I know." His brother interrupted him. "But the weapon is in there, amidst your things, and they will find it and recognize it and they will use it as the solid proof against you that it is. It may be all they need." He groaned. "Even father can't do anything then. I can't."

Faramir frowned.

"I have many weapons." He said. "What shall I look for?"

"One that isn't yours." Boromir suggested, staring at his feet while he bit his lip thinking. "The blade is very distinct. That's what the healer who examined her body said. About the first thing he said, really. The Guard Captain urged him to." His voice turned very soft. "I am sorry, little one. I wish I knew more. I wish I could _do _more! I didn't want to let it come to this. I thought he would let it go."

Faramir was speechless. As simple as that. He didn't know what to say. He hardly even knew how to think. Whatever pieces needed to fall into place for all of this to make sense, he lacked too many of them.

"Do you still have the jewel?" Boromir asked suddenly. "The one father told you not to mention to anyone else? Give it to me for the time being, I will keep it safe."

Yes, whatever pieces needed to fall into place.

"I don't have it." Faramir heard himself reply. "Not on me and not in my chamber. It's safe. Don't worry."

He tried very hard to detect deception on his brother's face, but Boromir looked away and only shrugged.

"Very well." He said. "I must ask of you not to... get rid of anything else. Just the weapon she was killed with. They would know if... too many private...things...were missing." He sounded uncomfortable saying that. As uncomfortable as Faramir felt. "I...will go now. And try to find someone we can trust to...do this with me. I'm afraid the second will not be of our choosing, however. Faramir... I'm... sorry. Truly."

"I fell. The other day." Faramir suddenly remembered to tell his brother. "Some things broke. It might look like a fight has taken place."

Boromir stopped to look at him. "No. No fight. I was there when you fell. You were drunk after Soldier's Night Out in the Seven Stars." He gave a tense laugh. "You nearly always are."

"You. Would lie? Like that? For me?"

Boromir hugged him quickly. "I promised to take good care of you, little one. Don't think that such a tiny deed would already be enough to make me shrink. No more." He leaned his forehead against Faramir's like they had done so often. A simple gesture of trust and closeness. "Not ever again." He smiled sadly and grabbed Faramir's forearms tightly. "Be strong."


	24. Chapter 24

Faramir remained standing in the hallway for a moment after Boromir was gone, massaging his temples and wishing himself back to Ithilien.

What had just happened only made that wish grow stronger.

In one moment Boromir had stood before him and in the next he was gone and even the echo of his steps had faded. Between those two moments lay a third, shorter one. One of blackness. A blackness as though Faramir had blinked and kept his eyes closed for too long. It left a burning sensation in his temples and a strange coldness in his lungs, as if he had breathed in icy air too quickly or chased a horde of orcs through the wilds in a cold winter night. It was hard to explain, hard to put into words even if those words were only meant for himself, so he could understand. It was a sensation that, familiar as it was, had always frightened him. It always came with the threat that some day the blackness might not lift.

In this one thing the Guard Captain had been right: The last few days had been exhausting –his stays in the citadel usually were, even without an ill-tempered elf and a Stargazer to look after- and he had had little sleep.

Faramir knew the signs and, like his brother could pain, he could ignore them, for some time. He had gotten used to it during the years in which he had done his utmost to draw level with his older brother. He had pushed himself to his limits and beyond just to keep up with him in areas that were clearly not meant for him.

It had taken him long enough to realize that he did not have to be a spare Boromir. He did not have to excel in everything Boromir excelled in. In fact, it did them both and Gondor more good if they complimented each other. Even the Variag by now surprisingly respectfully referred to them as: 'the right and the left hand of old father war'.

Absentmindedly Faramir reached for the amulet he carried around his neck and emptied its content onto his outstretched hand. The locket felt heavier than before. Though, it fit perfectly into his palm.

He only hoped that this small trinket would not turn his own brother against him. He knew what he would do then, what he would _have_ to do.

Sometimes there were no choices and the only path to take was one of regret.

Faramir opened the locket carefully.

How many others had this jewel seen take this path already? How many had it enticed to do so?

If his suspicions were correct this was not, as his father hoped, a weapon to be used. It was not a source of energy to access and draw from, a power that could either be directed against an enemy like a burning arrow or used as a shield. It was not the means to an end. It was the end. The fabled prize, the ultimate trophy, ancient heirloom, a crown for a king of a people that needed none.

Was it not obvious?

Faramir looked down on the small jewel glistening in his hand and resisted the urge to touch it. Touch it with just the tip of one finger, just testing, disturbing the calm surface of a deep pond just to see the ripples spread out.

He was no fool. He had seen what had happened to the last man who had dared to.

Yet, he could not deny the allure of it.

The jewel was fascinating. It radiated something that reminded Faramir of the light and warmth of the sun. It was not actual light, but something that, for a brief moment, made him see everything clearer, sharper, more vivid, as if a veil was lifted. Neither was it physical heat, but something that went deeper than the skin. Something that caused sensations he could not quite pin down, but that felt very familiar. They reminded him of the feeling of the first warm rays of sun in spring, the relief, contentedness and easy happiness they brought, the strengthening promise of a new beginning, of hope. At the same time he felt reminded of the gentle melancholy of a full moon night, longing and a bitter-sweet touch that soothed the soul, made tiredness bearable and chased nightmares away.

No value could be assigned to such a jewel.

As a symbol this was what made a king among humans.

Who but a king could posses such a treasure? Obtain it, defend it, distinguish himself by owning it, proving himself worthy of it?

Faramir remembered where his men had found the jewel. The small Khandrian track they had ambushed had not been a military one. They had noticed that too late. Whatever had caused these people to venture into Ithilien had remained a mystery to him and his men. They must have known of the danger they walked into. They could not possibly have been there by chance.

Maybe in the end their only mission had been to deliver this little trinket.

To whom? And why?

_If only Shagatah were still alive._ She might have known. At least her reaction might have told him something useful. _Anything._

If a Variag leader called such a prize his own, how would his people view him? Would it not change his position considerably? Might it even legitimate a claim to rulership? In his own tribe? Relating to the other tribes?

Vaguely understanding what this jewel might mean to men, Faramir could only begin to imagine what it meant to elves. It was, after all, of elvish make. He had no doubt about that.

They valued gemstones for their beauty, he imagined, their near eternity, an eternity they shared.

On the outside jewels were what remained largely unchanged while the strongest trees grew and fell and mountains rose up and crumbled, oceans filled and dried out.

The craftsmanship that had went into this particular jewel was remarkable, even a human like Faramir recognized that.

On the inside the value of such a thing went probably farther than any human could understand. It carried inside the memory of a light of ages long past, preserved like a fly trapped in amber. It was what remained of more glorious times.

Maybe it should be returned to, if anyone, the elves? Were not they its rightful owners? Maybe the only ones who truly knew what to do with it?

And yet, it was not his decision to make. His role in this was that of a momentary keeper and of one who followed orders. It was the Steward who had to decide. And the Steward had not decided yet.

For the first time in ages Faramir dreaded the decision his father would make.

He could not see himself disobeying whatever the Steward deemed right.

Faramir closed the locket.

No, not disobeying, no. But maybe there was something else he could do.

Denethor had told him to make sure no one else learned of the locket and the jewel it contained. Now that his belongings were about to be searched and he under suspicion of murder he had to make sure it would be safe, somewhere else.

If only 'somewhere else' came with a smaller risk attached to it.

Faramir could almost hear Boromir's voice, telling him to stop 'thinking everything through so often it falls to pieces and act'. So he did.

And what he heard was not Boromir's voice, but that of the elf.

"You are quite something." He said. "Threatening a soldier with a blunt knife."

"That blunt knife saved your hide out in the wilds." Faramir commented drily and tossed the sword back on his armchair where it had rested peacefully before.

He had no desire at all to continue their argument. One could only lose arguing with an elf, with this elf in particular. Nothing good would come of it and they would only lose precious time.

Instead, he ignored Curufinwë as best as he could and crouched down near the fireplace, tracing his fingers along the ornamented wall.

There was a hidden door to an old passageway somewhere. It had initially probably been used by servants to discretely slip from one room into the next and do their work unseen. Many of those passageways criss-crossed the citadel. This one connected his room with that which had once belonged to his brother. As children they had used it frequently. Since Boromir had moved out it had been ignored. That had been many years ago. Faramir, however, had always maintained that it might prove useful at some point. It was one reason why he had not wanted to give up his old chamber, small as it was.

"I heard the strangest story when I went searching for you." He heard the elf say suddenly. "About an elf who got ensnared by a wizard. He tricked her, blinded her. He fed her poison that weakened her, disguised as medicine meant to strengthen her in her weakened state. And as much as her people tried to reach her, she could not hear them, nor see them, even when they stood right in front of her. She thought them all gone."

Faramir frowned. His fingers finally found the small bolt that unlocked the hidden door. It opened, just like he remembered, without a sound.

"So one day they hid an elvish knife in the fresh linens for her bed." The elf continued behind his back. "She found it. And she knew what to do."

Faramir finally looked up.

"They call you wizard pupil." The elf said. "Don't they?"


	25. Chapter 25

Faramir rose to his feet slowly and carefully, his eyes trained on the dagger in the elf's hands.

"It has been a long time since they last did." He said.

"Curious." The elf muttered. "You tell me they fear us. Elves. Magic. And yet I hear them glorify us."

"In tales." Faramir replied. "There is a difference between tales and reality. Even if one may influence the other and some say tales prepare us for what is to come."

"Or may never happen." The elf said with a discarding gesture. "No elf would allow a human, magic or no, to trick her like that. A female even less than a male. Finduilas may be an elvish name, but I doubt she married the son of Ecthelion, a powerful human wizard."

Faramir couldn't suppress a snort. He could just imagine who had told this particular story. As much as he had always enjoyed listening to the traveling storytellers that visited the citadel every now and then, sometimes they took their creativity a little too far.

"My father is hardly a wizard who had to 'ensnare' my mother, yes."

Curufinwë smiled. An almost knowing smile that Faramir could not quite place.

Involuntarily he mimicked that smile and his gaze traveled back to the dagger, resting so peacefully in the elf's big hands.

_'Try looking for one that isn't yours.'_ Boromir had said. _'A very distinctive blade.'  
><em>

"That dagger." He heard himself say.

"It is mine." The elf replied, rising to stand, weapon loosely in hand.

"You had no weapons on you when I found you." Faramir pointed out, instinctively reaching for his sword that was no longer there. He himself had tossed it away and he carried no other weapons.

_Foolish. Careless.  
><em>

"True." Curufinwë admitted. "I remedied that."

With his shoulders lifted and his back straight the elf was taller than the man. He was impressive, even if the effort this posture alone cost him was obvious.

"It is yours." Faramir repeated, refusing to believe the answers that started taking form. "What did you do?" His voice came out as a hoarse whisper as images of his dead friend flooded his mind. Her small, broken body. How heavy it had felt, limp in his arms. Her smile. Her empty eyes. Her laugh. Had she not screamed? Struggled? Had no one heard? The violence that must have been put into killing her. The strength needed to subdue her so quickly and silently. So efficiently.

He could imagine himself leading her away from her chambers, Meleem, her attendants, her perpetual watchdogs.

He could imagine himself even bringing her right to the water basin, maybe with the promise to prove that the water was fresh and clean. In Variag culture such places were important, almost sacred. Finding clean sweet water for the whole tribe was, among many other, a Stargazer's responsibility. She would have been delighted that he knew and she would have followed him, smiling. Yes, he would have found a way to lure her there. She would have trusted him. She would not have suspected. And he knew how to kill quickly, silently, how to silence a scream before his victim even thought about screaming.

But someone else?

She would have trusted a kindred spirit, someone who understood her situation. She would have felt kinship to someone who was a stranger in Minas Tirith, in Gondor, just like her. Someone who thought differently than the men here. Someone whose acquaintance she would have wanted to make more than anything..._  
><em>

_And I did not suspect. Not at all. Not him. Not once. Did I think him too weak? Too good? How could I have been so blind?_

Suddenly the elf was right in front of him, mere inches away.

"What did you do with it?!" Faramir repeated, reaching for the elf's hand that still held the dagger.

Curufinwë let him take it, let him throw it to the ground, where it landed with a clattering noise and slithered away, out of reach. Yet, he barely moved when Faramir grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him. It had to hurt. Considering that his body had not yet fully healed, it had to hurt. Faramir didn't care. The Valar help him, he didn't care.

"Did you kill her?" He asked, then screamed: "Did _you_ kill her?!"

_Tell me the truth! At least tell me the truth now!_

He had found her. He had held her dead body. He had been called a murderer by people he knew, in front of his own father...

The elf's grip around his upper arms was surprisingly strong. His whisper was dark and his face so close that Faramir could feel the warmth radiating off his skin:

"No."

Shivers ran down Faramir's spine and he clenched his teeth, forcing himself to breathe evenly.

"I did not kill your friend, little human. I had no reason to." Curufinwë murmured, his hands surprisingly gently rubbing his tense arms. "The pain will fade."

"I know." Faramir replied. It was true, both of it.

"You are a soldier." The elf agreed.

"She was murdered and she was not a soldier."

"Are you certain?" Curufinwë's voice lacked its usual condescending undertone. His hands remained on Faramir's arms. An intimate gesture that almost made the man laugh.

"I am not a monster, Faramir." The elf said. "I do not understand why you would grieve for someone you have only known for such a brief amount of time and who has done nothing to earn what you call friendship, but I do understand grief."

Faramir only nodded. For the first time since they had met he sensed the centuries weighing on the elf's shoulders. How much he must have lived through, Faramir could only begin to imagine.

_This elf._ This elf who had all but crushed his romantic ideas of the elegant, wise and stoic eldar, distant and calm, ancient and otherworldly. No, certainly, this one was everything but all of these things. At least at first glance. Now, for the first time Faramir got an idea of the depth that lay beneath the stormy surface of Curufinwë's character.

"The dagger is mine." The elf explained. "I made it. Though, long ago. Your storyteller kept it and misused it to illustrate his ridiculous, little tale. I took it back. It belongs to me."

This time Faramir did laugh. "You stole it."

"I made it." Curufinwë maintained. "I owned it all along. I took back what belongs to me." He shook his head. "It is not the weapon your guards are searching for. The blade is common. It was not forged to leave a distinctive mark. Sadly, it is nothing special. I would have hoped..."

"It is." Faramir tried to explain. "Few genuine elvish blades are still in human hand. None cut truer. The wound will be very distinctive as compared to any of our own weapons. Even our master smiths do not accomplish such perfection."

Curufinwë moved even closer, their bodies touching just so.

"Then you are an even poorer people than I thought." He said.

"You do not find us at our best, I fear." Faramir apologized with a weak smile.

No, not Gondor's people and not him. He had just proven that.

"True." The elf said over his lips.

"Do you trust me?" Faramir asked, automatically lowering his voice upon finding the elf so close.

"No." Curufinwë replied. "But neither do you fully trust me."

"I..." Faramir tried to suppress a nervous laugh and only succeeded in coughing helplessly instead. The elf's proximity and the concentrated attention with which he regarded him, trying to balance out his lack of sight didn't make it any easier to remain impassive. Not to mention that he, despite knowing it could not happen again, still remembered their little interlude in the wilds rather vividly.

In the silence that followed and in which Faramir felt a rather unbecoming blush spread over his face and ears and down his neck, voices could be heard in the hallway. The Guard Captain putting down his soldier and Boromir defending him.

"You do not trust me." He forced himself to say as calmly as possible. "But will you listen to me? Now? This once?" Faramir moved away a little, taking the elf's hand to guide it towards the door he had opened in the wall. "You have to leave."

The elf said nothing, he only nodded grimly.

"The chamber next door is empty, has been empty for a while. Turn right and you will find a glass door, opening to a small balcony. Take the stairway leading down on the left side and wait for me." Faramir picked up the dagger. Holding it by the blade he offered Curufinwë the hilt. "And take this, too." He said. "I cannot keep it here." Even if it weren't for the Guard Captain and his men on his doorstep. Never before had he felt such repulsion for a weapon. Imagining Shagatah's blood on it made him sick. It didn't even have to be actually there. "I still believe it may be what he is looking for. Even if you didn't kill her." If what Boromir had warned him against was another weapon and still in his room it was too late to find it and get rid of it. "If I, for whatever reason, cannot follow you, try to find Iorlas in the stables. Tell him I sent you and he will help you in any way he can. Take my horse. Go to Ithilien, find my men. Fastred is from Rohan. Ask for him. He knows about the forest I told you about and the elves that might be dwelling there." Faramir took off his amulet and fastened it around the elf's neck. "A small leather pouch, filled with Ithilien earth, shells, bones..." He knew the elf would not open it and could only hope he would not simply throw it away. "For luck. It's important to me. Please keep it until you are safely reunited with your people." Faramir's face turned grim when the expected knock on the door came, followed by his brother's voice. "May the Valar watch over you." He told the elf.

Yet, before moving to open the door he remembered something else. Curufinwë moved at the same time as he and Faramir, without meaning to, stepped in front of him, effectively blocking his way. There seemed to be something the elf wanted to say, maybe do, too, but he didn't try to continue, nor did he move away, and he said nothing.

Faramir's gaze was drawn back and forth between the door and the elf's face so close. Scarred as it was, it was still strangely beautiful. Attractive. Very. Of course. Who could deny that? Though, it was every bit the opposite of what Faramir would have expected an elf to look like. No fine, fragile features, neither ethereal nor eternal, no pale starlight glow.

"The sheath." The elf suddenly said.

Faramir nodded. "Yes." The same thing he had had in mind.

A sheath of elvish make was as telling as its corresponding weapon. It would tell anyone that there had to be a fitting dagger, too. And Curufinwё couldn't very well carry the dagger in hand all the time.

Faramir frowned and the elf stepped back, taking the sheath when Faramir picked it up from where it lay next to the bed and handed it to him.

"Show them their place." He told Faramir, giving his shoulder an encouraging squeeze.

Ducking through the hidden door into the next room and closing it behind him he was gone, leaving Faramir to sigh.

_I wish I could._


End file.
